The Last Drag Act in Gotham
by Images of Broken Light
Summary: No matter how rotten the tree, the apple can never fall far from it. So how can the Joker's son possibly resist a father who seems determined to break him?
1. Moonlight Beating

**Moonlight Beating**

The music faded slowly, dying with the trickle of applause. It wasn't a big crowd, never was, but it was sizable. And doing well here, well, that opened the door to other bars, other acts. Maybe even your own show one day.

Backstage, the atmosphere was heavy with smoke; cigarettes and things that looked like cigarettes but didn't necessarily contain tobacco. The regulars were there, and as per usual they ignore me; I only perform on the weekends and most of them are somewhat uncomfortable with the fact that I'm still in school. At the end of the hallway I can see my friend Emilia waiting for me, smiling and waving as she always does. "Great show tonight Miz Anita Badman!" I can hear her voice just above the music blasting on the stage behind me.

I smile at Emilia, pulling off my long blonde wig to reveal my short, dark brown hair. "I dunno. Do you think the fake tits were too big tonight? I sort of wanted to try something new and, well, I'm not sure."

Emilia giggles. "Nah didn't notice them, to be honest." She takes my wig and began to play with the curls. "Now go get changed you silly queer and we'll go get something to eat."

"Hey," I say, pretending to me mildly upset. "I take offence to that."

She points to the door. "Not when I say it you don't. Now get changed, I'm hungry."

Smiling, I go through the door to the dressing room and begin to get changed, changing from Anita Badman to Andrew Napier as I remove the dress, the earrings, the bra, anything that could give me away to the outside world. After a couple of minutes Emilia comes back in, passing me my wig. "You really were great tonight Andrew. One of your best performances."

I smile at her in the mirror as I removed the last of the makeup. "Thanks hon, I try." Bending down over the sink, I quickly splash some water on my face. "Anyway, no time to dwell on it. We should get moving."

I stoop to pick up my backpack before following Emilia out of the dressing room and out to the alleyway behind the bar. The moonlight cast shadows onto the buildings surrounding us as we began to stroll towards the nearest train station. "How did the talk with your Dad go?" Emilia asks timidly, looking down at her feet as we walk along the deserted footpath. "What did you tell him?"

"Um, well it was difficult," I stop under a street light and roll up the sleeve of my jumper, revealing a mass of purple bruises. "Dad's not really one who takes that sort of thing well." I sigh. "Not that he takes anything well. But at least he didn't go for my face this time." I pull my sleeve down again, tenderly rubbing my bicep. "I started with 'You know I'm not straight' and, of course, it all went downhill from there. It's my own bloody fault. I shoulda known better. He never did let me get round to telling him 'bout my act."

Emilia gives me a quick hug. "Are you alright?" She asks, looking into my eyes. "Do you wanna crash at my place for a few days? Just til the heat cools off."

"Nah," I whisper. I start to walk again, staring off into the darkness. It's a weird night; just a feeling I get. "It'd just fester away. Plus, I don't think he's coming home tonight. There's a, er," I shrug my shoulders then readjust my backpack strap on my shoulder, "big plan or something on tonight. Dunno, don't care."

"Alright hon. Just… let me know if you need anything, 'kay?" She affectionately punches me on the shoulder. "I've gotta take care of you, now don't I?" I can't help but smile at her violent affection.

We walk in silence for a moment longer before I become aware of the sharp tap of footsteps on the concrete behind us. Emilia must have heard it about the same time I did because she instinctually begins to walk faster, trying to get away. I, on the other hand, slowed down to an almost complete stop. Emilia spins round when she realises that I'm not with her, coming back to stand in front of me. "Andrew," she hisses. "Come on! You don't need to do this here. Not now. Please, just come with me."

I ignore her, turning round to face my father. He was not impressed. Seeing him frown through his own makeup made me angry. "What?" I ask tersely. "What the hell do you want?" Emilia makes the small squeaking noise that she tends to make whenever she's scared. She grips my wrist, pulling lightly. I ignore her; the anger's built up inside me and I can't see anything else except for him, standing there, frowning at me. His hand's in his pocket and I just know he's gripping the handle of one of his knives. I wonder if he's going to use it, as a threat or otherwise. I wonder if maybe Emilia should get out of here, for her own safety. I can't let Dad hurt her.

"Wha_t_ were you doing?" Dad has this habit of speaking slowly when he's angry, emphasising random syllables or words. "Why _aren't_ you a_t_ home?" He's using that voice now. I remember when I was a little kid, about the time when he got those scars, I did something wrong and he used that voice. It still scares me; it means he's contemplating extreme violence. Something that's going to leave more than just bruises. In a split moment, he snaps. "Give me a fucking answer!" He roars, spittle flying from his mouth. Emilia trembles.

I turn my head to face her. "Emilia," I whisper, "please go home."

She nods apprehensively, slowly letting go of my wrist. Her footsteps recede quickly; she's running away. A wise choice. Dad's really angry. I can't help but wonder how many people have seen him this angry and lived to talk about it. The thought makes me sigh, trying to let my anger out, trying to recapture my Zen, inner peace, some shit like that, I don't know. I just want to calm down. I close my eyes for a moment, collecting myself. "I was perform-"

I don't get the chance to open my eyes before he hits me. His fist collided with my cheek, sending me to the ground, my protective hand covering my face. I bet I'm gonna get a black eye. I open my eyes, looking up, seeing him standing over me, leering down, the red paint on the scars stretching his sadistic smile unnaturally wide. "_You_ were parading aroun_d_ like a _fuck_ing _faggot_," he pauses, glaring down at me. I'm surprised how abnormally calm and slow his voice is. "_That's_ what you were _doing_."

It all happens in slow motion as I watch his foot swing into my stomach, leaving me rolling on the ground in agony as his shoe collides with a healing gash. He kicks me again, getting a different spot. My mind wanders, numbly absorbing the pain as tears seep from the corners of my eyes. It's not easy, you know. Telling your father that you're gay. When he's got anger management issues, when he ends up locked in Arkham Asylum at least nine months of the year, when you don't even know his name, when all you can call him is Dad or the Joker… It makes it all that much harder.

He's stopped now, crouching down, a purple leather glove on my cheek. He smells musty, a strange combination of mothballs and smoke. I haven't noticed that sort of thing about him in a long time. The concrete is hard and cool in comparison to his warm, almost affectionate touch. I'm almost fooled. Almost. He wipes a tear off my cheek with his thumb. "You… _disappoint_ me, Andrew." I can hear the pop of his mouth as he sucks his teeth, one of his many revolting habits. "I had such _hope_ for you." It's bullshit. All of it. Always has been. He does this occasionally; tries to win me over, tries to make me, well, less gay. I don't know why he bothers. No one knows I exist anyway. It's not like they can link us.

And as swiftly as he appeared, he stands and begins to leave. I stay on the ground, curled in the foetal position, listening to his footsteps on the concrete. They stop for a moment as I hear his voice waft over me. "Ge_t_ home." Then he starts walking again. No goodbye, no 'I love you'; the story of my life. It's always been this way. Never a kind word, never a term of endearment, never a display of affection. Maybe, when I was younger… But I can't remember. And I'm sure he can't either.

I can't hear his footsteps any more; that's when I get up. Never before. It's too dangerous. It's like he sees my getting to my feet as a challenge, a threat to his dominance. He's somewhat animalistic, my father. Cruel, sadistic, all those words that the media pins on him, they have no relevance, no meaning unless you have to live with him. _Then_ you learn the meaning of sadism. That's when he's there, that is. When he's not there, you have no idea when he's going to turn up, 5 minutes from now or 5 months from now. It's scary. Like living your life with someone threatening always lurking in the shadows, so you never know when they're watching or not. It's like there are these eyes, they're always watching but you never knew when they're going to catch you out. It's like that.

Stooping, I pick my backpack off the ground and swing it onto my shoulder. I hurt all over. The guys at school, they've got nothing on Dad's beatings. He's got a way of making you hurt in places he didn't even attack. I guess fear can do that to you. Fear of pain to come. Cause he's unpredictable like that. You don't know what's going to come next. Sometimes I can guess, but that's largely cause I know his mannerisms.

I growl when pain shoots through my abdomen as I take a step. Bastard.

It's funny, you know. He never used to take an interest in my life. I was just his kid, an attachment to his life with no real consequence. Just a stupid mistake. Jumped my mum, shotgun wedding, baby. Now my mother's dead and I don't know or remember why. My father's insane and I'm not even sure if he was ever any different. I vaguely remember… He didn't always have his scars. That I am sure about. They came sometime during my lifetime. Probably just another thing he'd blame on me. But, you know, the minute he found out I was gay, suddenly he's everywhere. Spying on me, threatening me. It's my own damn fault for wanting him to take an interest in my life. For wanting a real father figure.

I hobble a few steps more before I realise the futility of my attempts and sit down heavily in the gutter. I take my backpack off again and put it between my feet. I rest my elbows on my knees, resting my head on my hands. It was comfortable, sitting here like this. I'd say like a normal teenager but that's a joke. Even now, during this façade of normality, I have a black eye and a backpack holding a dress, heels and blonde wig. Normality is not something that I'm going to get any time soon.

Rolling my eyes skyward, I scan the clouds for the Batman spotlight. I haven't seen it for a long time. Years and years. I guess maybe something's happened to it. Either way, I wouldn't know; I haven't seen the news in years. I've never read a newspaper. Not that it really matters to me anyway. I get enough info from Dad's rantings. Batman this, Dent that, Gordon here there and everywhere. Although Batman doesn't come up all that much anymore and I know Dent's dead. Besides, when your father is front page news for all the wrong reasons, you begin to lose interest in the news pretty quickly. I hate hearing about the stuff he's done.

Maybe I should get moving; you know, head home. He might not come home tonight, but if he does and I'm not there, I'm sure to be in for it. Not that that's anything unusual. I'm a stuff-up, an embarrassment to humanity, a fucking faggot and the embodiment of everything that's wrong with the world. Well, that's only if primitive assholes who would have trouble telling their dicks apart from a turnip can be believed. Course, that's just my opinion. I happen to know of a lot of people who would disagree with my point of view. Ditzy cheerleaders, obsessive girlfriends, supportive 'bros' and, would you believe it? Fangirls. I kid you not, my father has fangirls. Admittedly, they are usually of the Goth/Emo persuasion, however, I have heard it said that my father is, and I quote, 'completely rape-able.' You wanna talk about traumatising moments; I've got them in spades.

And slowly I rise, willing the pain to vanish. It does, to an extent. Course it's still there, Dad does too good a job to just get over it quickly, but it's tolerable now. Again, I stoop to get my backpack, swing it over my shoulder and slowly turn for home. The thought of going to Emilia's crosses my mind and then leaves as abruptly as it entered. There's no point getting her in trouble; plus, her parents would ask too many questions. I'm not a good liar.

It's a full moon tonight. Just something I observed on the walk home.


	2. Heart to Heart

**Heart to Heart**

We live in the Narrows; at least, I do. Dad's never there so I don't think that you can say that he lives there as such. He has stuff here but he never meets anyone here, never has business here. He's just here when he needs to lay low. He comes round less and less now days. Not that I really mind.

It's an old apartment building; you know, one of the slums. It's funny though, we're round the corner from Arkham Asylum. Sometimes, I've seen them take Dad there. When that happens there are patrol cars everywhere, sirens, streets are blocked. I always know. It's nice knowing what's happening occasionally.

Dad was there when I walked in the door. I'm not sure why he was there; he had something planned tonight, I'm sure of it. But then again, it's always surprising, but not really unusual to see him when you least expect. His purple jacket is hanging over the back of a chair and he's sitting on our old sofa, just like he owns the place. It's a small apartment, just four rooms; bathroom, two bedrooms and a living room slash kitchen. I briefly consider pretending not to see him and just going straight to my bedroom, but that would lead to more problems. Sometimes, it's just better to face him straight away.

"What are you doing here Dad?"

He looks up at me, his eyes narrowing. He still has his purple gloves on and his shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. It makes we worried just a little bit. It looks like he's ready for something. "Wha_t_ does it matter to _you_? This is_ my_ apartmen_t._" I'm sure I've told you how much it creeps me out when he speaks slowly. "We need to talk."

I drop my bag next to a chair and close the door. "That's great. There's just one little problem; I have no desire to talk to you. At all. Ever." Despite my better judgement, I start to head towards my bedroom. Dad gets up off the sofa, blocking the door. I stop. He's taller than me. Stronger too. It makes it that much easier to intimidate me, to threaten me.

"You'll talk to me when I want you to talk to me," he growls quickly, his eyes narrowing. The black greasepaint around his eyes almost makes them disappear when he does that. It scares me, always has. "_And_ you'll answer me."

Giving in with a sigh, I take a step backwards, away from him. It's not just fear; he smells like gunpowder and fire and I hate it. I hate being reminded of all the crap he's done. It may be idealistic, but sometimes I still like to think of my parents as being saintly. It makes me feel normal. "So what do you want then?"

Dad smiles. It's an evil smile, malicious. "Si_t_ down," he mutters, motioning to the sofa with a small head gesture. I pause before beginning to move, accidentally making him angry. "Sit down!" He yells, grabbing my arm and pushing me in the direction he wants me to move. I oblige, ever mindful of his violent temperament. I gingerly sit down on the sofa, watching his movements carefully. He's pacing, his arms are moving around at a rapid pace as he thinks about what he's going to say; three steps in one direction, turns on his heel and takes three steps in the opposite direction. Repeat as necessary. He swings around on one of the turns to face me. "Is… _this_… a cry for," he pauses, sucking his teeth with a pop while retaining his focused, fearsome expression, "attention?" He reaches into his pocket, pulling out his switchblade. "Wha_t_ have you done?"

I say nothing. Dad approaches the sofa. His walk is menacing; holding the blade out, focused expression, the strut of a sadist who knows he holds all the cards. "Ihaven'tdoneanything," I blurt out, my words tumbling over themselves. I pause, taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm myself down. Dad stops, staring at me with dark eyes. "I haven't," I pause momentarily, smiling calmly back at Dad, "and I wouldn't do anything that would…_embarrass_ you."

"Hmmm?" Dad's lips are a thin line and, for some reason, I can't tell what he's planning on doing. Then, in a sudden movement, he springs towards me, straddling me on the sofa. He has a handful of my hair, pulling my head back, forcing me to look him in the face. The blade waves before my nose, back and forth, back and forth, I follow the movements with my eyes. "Then _why_," he growls in a deep, animalistic voice, "do you dress up like a _woman_?" I watch the blade come closer to my face, heading towards my mouth, coming to rest on my lower lip. The cold steel seems to burn me like scalding water and my hands spring up, grabbing his arm, my eyes begin to plead, imploring him to have mercy. Slowly, oh so slowly, he smiles. It is a cruel smile. A smile that shows just how much pleasure he's getting from this moment. "You don't think," he whispers, drawing the blade across my lip, leaving a thin trail of blood. "_That_ embarrasses me?"

Beneath my trembling fingers, I can feel his pulse, his blood flowing quickly through his veins. It surprises me, just for a moment, to think that I could think of his humanity at a time like this. I shake the feeling from my mind, squeezing his arm in a vain attempt to make him stop, to make him remember his own humanity. "Dad… Please," I beg. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by it. I was just being stupid."

"Bu_t_," he interrupts me harshly, pulling harder at my hair until I gasp in pain. "But, you do it _time_ and _time_ again." He slowly slides the blade between my lips. Realising, I clamp my teeth together so that the tip of the blade stops once it hits them. Dad grimaces. "Clever," he mutters. "But useless." He pulls my hair again and, as I open my mouth in pain and surprise, he slips the blade past my teeth, leaving it resting on my tongue. "I think that you _enjoy_ it." He raises his eyebrows "Hmmmm?"

I shake my head, metaphorically lying through my teeth.

Dad raises an eyebrow. "You wouldn't… _lie_… to me, _would_ you?" He ponders the question as he says it, drawing out the syllables more than usual. "Because, I _know_ when you're _lying_." I shake my head emphatically, praying that he'd believe me. I could tell that he didn't. It was the way his face hardened; he was no longer pretending to be friendly and talkative. "Maybe I should jus_t_," he pulls on my hair again as he takes the blade from my mouth and runs the tip down my neck, stopping at my collarbones. He lets the end of his sentence hang in the silence. "Tell me Andrew," he says calmly. "Are you a virgin?"

My eyes go wide for a moment before I realise enough to hide my emotions. Why would he ask that? Why now? Just why? Was this an attempt to relate to me? I can't bear to look at his sadistic smile any longer; I avert my eyes, looking over to the door. Maybe he wouldn't force the matter any further. Maybe he only mentioned it to mess with my mind. But I look back to him and he is still waiting; he has an expectant look on his face. I close my eyes, biting my lower lip. I nod my head slightly and open my eyes, only to see his expression of smug superiority.

"I knew it," he breathes as a morbid look comes across his face. "Then you won'_t_ _miss_…" Again, he lets the words hang in the air as I realise what he was talking about.

"You're – you're not going to… cut it off?" I watch him grin, showing his yellow teeth. "Dad, you can't!" I say, starting to speak faster, squeezing his arm. "Please Dad, please don't do it. You wouldn't do it to me. Not me, please? Please, I'm your son. You'll kill me. Please don't." My breathing is quick as I start to feel the pinpricks of tears behind my eyelids. What scares me most of all is that I honestly can't tell if he really intends to or if he's just trying to frighten me. His low laughter frightens me, scares me into sitting still as the knife blade rests on my chest, as his fingers pull my hair.

"Then you won't do it anymore." He says slowly, smiling at me with all his yellow teeth. "Cause, _if _I find ou_t_… I will do it. No questions asked." He gets off me, patting the back of my head almost affectionately as he detangles his fingers from my hair. I sit still as I watch him walk to the door, pick up his jacket and put it on. He reaches for the door handle and then pauses, looking to me as if he's had an afterthought. "That is one _terrible_ black eye you have there, _son_. You should be more careful." He smiles at me again before he walks out, slamming the door behind him.

Standing up shakily, I take a few seconds to get to grips with what had just happened before I run to the door. After locking it, I lean against the door. I hate this. The constant threats, the bullying, the abuse; I hate it all. But it's the first time he's ever made a threat quite like that…

Picking up my bag, I head to my bedroom and collapse on my bed. It's Sunday tomorrow. I'll have a shower in the morning. And I'll have to see Emilia tomorrow. I need to talk to her, to tell her what happened.

I roll over onto my stomach, dropping my bag on the floor so as to rest my head on my arms. I wonder whether it would be worthwhile having the locks changed. Probably not, I decide. Dad might try to pull my guts out if I did that…

Sometimes I can't help but contemplate what I actually know about Dad. Not much, that's for sure. My last name is Napier, but I don't know where it came from. It would have been Mom's or Dad's. Or Dad might have just made it up. I don't know why Mom died but… I'm pretty sure that it had something to do with Dad or his scars… Maybe both. I really don't know anything about him at all. And I can't say that doesn't depress me a little.

There's a bang outside, followed by a scream. Jumping off the bed, I run to the window, peering out onto the dark street below. I can just make out the outline of what has to be Dad. He's got someone pressed close against him; he probably has a knife to their throat. But over there… A dark shape; I can't make it out. Perhaps… perhaps it was Batman?

I leave the window, running to the door and leaving the apartment. I go down the stairs two at a time, making sure to be as quiet as possible. I'm determined to watch Dad work. And I want to see the Batman. A woman screams again and I run faster until I get to the door of the apartment building. Opening it slightly, I stick my head through the crack. I can still see them. They look like they're talking.

The door creaks as I push it further open and I wince as it snaps shut. Full of adrenaline, I creep along the street, watching the scene play out before me. As I get closer, I recognise the woman. Her name's Anna, a prostitute. She works the streets round here. I've met her a couple of times coming home from the bar. She was a nice lady. I'd hate to see her get hurt, especially by Dad.

Despite my efforts, I am still too far away from them when Dad throws Anna to the ground and lunges at Batman, so I have no idea what was said. But I can hear Anna cry out it pain. I don't watch Dad or Batman as they fight. I watch Anna lying on the concrete. The longer she lies there, the more I want to run and help her, but if Dad saw me… Try as I might, I can't put her life above my own.

Ashamed, I begin to head back towards the apartment, keeping my head low. It was stupid of me to come out anyway. I should have known better.

Back in the apartment, I go to my bedroom again, heading towards the window. Both Dad and Batman are gone, but Anna is still lying there. In the dim glow from a distant streetlight, I can see a crimson pool beginning to form around her motionless body. I stare solemnly at her for a long time. It was the first time I had seen my father murder someone with my own eyes.


	3. Drinks and Acquaintances

**Drinks and Acquaintances**

I wake up in the morning feeling like shit. Wiping the sleep out of my eyes, I stumble to the bathroom and stare at my reflection in the mirror. Shit. Black eye might just be an understatement. Almost the entire left side of my face was some varying shade of black, blue or purple and a faint red scar ran across my lower lip and down my neck. I probe my bruised cheek with gentle fingers, flinching as I hit the tender spots. I don't think I'll see Emilia today after all; she'd freak out if she saw me like this.

Stumbling back out of the bathroom, I head back to my bedroom. Curiosity sends me over to the window where the early morning light is creeping in from behind the tattered old curtains. Drawing them back, I peer out to the street. Everything looks the same as it did last night, the only exception being the police car parked on the street and the officer kneeling down next to Anna's body. I have to look away; I feel terrible for just watching the scene play out. I guess I feel bad about her death. No one deserves to die like that; alone and scared.

Taking off my boxers and old white t-shirt, I head back to the bathroom, turn on the shower and inspect my variety of bruises while I wait for the water to warm up. Excluding my face, there are a clump on my arm and a couple on my stomach. There's also a long, thin gash on my stomach, but that wasn't Dad. That was from… the anatomy lesson they gave me at school about a month ago. But I don't wanna think about that now.

I get in the shower before the water has quite warmed up and gasp as the cool water hits my face and torso. But at least it wakes me up. I fiddle with the taps for a while, trying to get the right temperature, but my mind wanders. It's at lot of nonsense mostly; I don't think deep and meaningful thoughts all that often. But it's a nice feeling, thinking about life as you slump against the cold tiles, warm water running over your body.

Grabbing the bar of soap, I begin to wash myself; a slow, methodical process but one I take great pride in. I just don't think I could bear to end up looking or, God-forbid, _smelling_ like Dad or one of the dickheads that beat me up at school.

The hot water falters; the tap's only producing random fat bursts of ice cold water now. Then the pipes start to bang, like someone's going at them with a hammer. Jumping out of the way of the freezing water, I quickly turn off the taps and lean around the shower curtain for a towel. Drying my face and chest, I wrap the towel around my waist and leave the bathroom, padding quietly on the wooden floorboards with my wet feet. The shower wasn't nearly as long as I would have liked, but I _did_ get some good thinking done.

Discarding the towel, I stand naked in my room, considering, for a brief moment, being Anita today. It would be easy; I had the makeup, the clothes, everything I would need right here in my room, hidden beneath the floorboards so Dad wouldn't find it. But still, I know that Anita cannot become purely an escape mechanism. She's for when I'm happy, for when I'm out of this hell and so close to being free. So, instead I get changed into a pair of jeans and an old hoodie. I look down at myself; if I didn't know better, I'd say that I'd look like any other teenager. I lace up a pair of Converse, making my disguise complete.

I slip out of the apartment building unnoticed. Given, there was no one out at this time, but it still gave me a cheap thrill to be unnoticed. Remembering my bruised face, I pull my hood up over my head, lowering it over my face while I look down at the ground. From a distance, hopefully my bruise would go unnoticed, or at least, could pass for a shadow.

With an unfamiliar spring in my step, I begin to trace my route of last night, heading back to The Mean Mother, my bar of choice. It's where I do my act. You see, that was the one good thought I had while I was in the shower. Emilia, I realised, wouldn't and, really, couldn't understand my situation, no matter how much she tried and, to be fair to her, she really does try to understand. But, the queens at the bar, they know all about abuse and derogatory comments. It sort of comes with the territory. Besides, I needed to fit in today, and The Mean Mother's like home to me.

* * *

"Hey, Little Andy." I'm recognised the moment I shyly walk through the front doors. It's a nice feeling. "What the fuck are you doing here? Couldn't get enough of the place?" I can't help but smile at Joe behind the bar. Middle-aged and balding, he seems the common everyman. That is, until he steps into his heels and sequins and becomes Ophelia Pain. He owns The Mean Mother and, at the protest of some of the other queens, embraced my desire to perform here with open arms. I reckon he could see I needed help. I owe him a lot.

"What can I say, Joe? This bar's my life." Ain't it the truth, I think, taking a seat on a barstool. Everything in my life at the moment revolves around this bar.

Joe bends down to look closely at my face beneath my hoodie. "What happened to your face Andy? Some douche beat up on you?" He reaches up with his dirty, rough hands and pulls my hood off, exposing my bruised face to the dim light in the bar. "Fuck," he mutters.

"Yeah," I agree. "It's actually the reason I came round this morning." I glance round the bar, looking for the other queens. "Is Helena here yet? I thought I might," I shrug, "you know, talk with her."

Joe smiles sympathetically and nods a little. "She's here alright. She's been in the damn dressing room for half an hour already. I'll go tell her you're here." He cups my unbruised cheek in his hand, giving it an affectionate tap before he leaves in search of Helena.

Apart from Joe, who is well into his fifties and only dons his heels occasionally, Helena Handbasket is the oldest queen who still performs here on a regular basis. And she's the reason I came back here this morning. She's seen it all, been through it all and, probably, been on the stage in heels for longer than I've been alive. She _knows_. And besides, she's one of the regulars here that doesn't mind talking to me and has no qualms about 'setting me straight', as she so eloquently terms our verbal jousts.

"And what's this I hear about our Little Andy sitting here all morose with a black eye?" As per usual, I can hear her long before I can see her. I watch the double doors to the backstage area swing open, announcing her grand entrance as she bustles through; all sequins, fake tits, long wigs and monstrous fingernails. She gasps and winces when she sees my face but quickly recovers; sweeping her way across the bar to take a seat next to me, cooing sympathetically as she gently takes my face in her hands, turning my cheek so as to better examine the damage done. After a minute or two, Helena lets go of my cheek, turns to face the bar and slams her hands down on the wooden top, making me and Joe jump. "Two Long Island Iced Teas and one of whatever it is you want Joe," she commands, her face all business. Joe sets about making the drinks; you don't mess with Helena when she's in this sort of mood.

"Is it that bad?" I mutter, self-consciously covering my cheek with my hand.

Helena turns back to me, her face gentle once more. "Oh no, no honey. It'll heal up, but it might take a while. What slime did this to you?" I hesitate, casting my eyes downwards. Helena picks up on this right away. "It's alright honey, you can tell me. I know what it's like."

Obviously I'm not going to say it was my father, nor can I tell them that it was the Joker. So I take the only option open to me. "I don't know who it was." Helena and Joe exchange glances. I feel bad for lying to them but struggle on with my story as best I can. "It happened after I left last night. I'd said goodbye to my friend Emilia and I was walking home by myself. I cut through and alley and I got mugged. They got my bag, saw my costume inside and, well," I sigh deeply, "I guess you could call them homophobic."

There is an uncomfortable silence as I examine my shoes that is only broken when Joe stamps the glasses on the countertop. I look up as Helena pats my knee and motions to one of the Long Island Iced Teas. "Come on Andy, drink up. It'll help." She picks up one, leaving one sitting there for me.

I look between the two of them in disbelief. "Alcohol? But I'm underage."

Joe nods his head. "Yeah. Legally, you're not even allowed in here."

"Oh, come on," I mutter. "It's not like I drink in here. I just perform."

"Shut up and drink," Helena sighs as she puts her glass back on the countertop. "Or we'll report you."

Chuckling, I reach for my glass. "You'd report me for being in a bar if I don't drink the alcohol you're serving to me?" I take a careful sip that makes my eyes bulge and mouth hang open. "What did you put in this?"

Joe laughs openly, big hefty laughs that shake his entire body and quickly become infectious. "Never you mind," he says between chuckles, "it's our tried and tested recipe. Guaranteed to make you feel better. Or at least help you forget."

Helena smiles with smug superiority as she takes another sip of her drink. "Stumbling around the Gotham bars for over twenty years has taught us something you know Andy."

"I bet is has," I mutter, rubbing my eyes. I flinch as I rub my bruised eye too hard, taking a deep breath as I cover my face with my hands. Being here feels wrong. Their kindness feels wrong. "I should go. Thanks. For everything. I'll see you next week." Neither Helena nor Joe say anything as I stand up and walk out of the bar. I appreciate that.

Stepping out into the bright sunlight, I resist the urge to put my hood back on; it's too nice a day. So I begin to wander. Without a plan, with nowhere specific to go, I just wander through the streets of Gotham. For some bizarre reason, I end up in the business district, near the river. It's nice here, makes you kinda forget about what a crap city Gotham is.

"Well, if it isn't our favourite fag."

I resist the urge to turn around as well as the urge to run. I recognise the voice; Greg Palmer. A thug from school. It's common knowledge that his father was one of the crooked cops that Harvey Dent put away. It's uncommon knowledge that his father was on one of the ferries that Dad tried to blow up. Well, everyone knows he was on one of the ferries. No one knows it was my father threatening to blow them up.

"We know it's you. Turn around you freak."

It's at times like this I wish I were taller, stronger. I wish I had my father's build. I'm too short, too thin and weak to defend myself in an all-out brawl.

In a split second I'm on the ground, my face pressed into the concrete, the weight of someone on my back. I'm not scared like I am with my father. These guys just make me angry. I've been through Hell and I've fought the Devil. What makes them think they're worth my time? I try to roll over, determined to get into a less vulnerable position but big hands, more like giant hooves, press down on my shoulders, pinning me in place. The weight on my back lessens and I begin to thrash around. My foot hits someone; I can hear his growl of pain. Two more hooves press down on my legs as multiples shoes swing into my sides. I grimace in pain as the kicks come faster, harder. I hear a voice above me, just another one in the gang of thugs that plague my existence. "Let's toss him in the river!"

I freeze for a moment, running over what he just said in my mind. Then I start to fight back against my captors. They laugh at me, at my efforts to escape. "Little fag doesn't like that idea, does he?" A mocking voice asks while the rest laugh on.

They start to pick me up; they have total control over my limbs as they turn me over to face the sky. I can see; the whole gang's here. "What the hell are you lot doing here anyway?" I ask viciously, lashing out with my tongue. "I thought you only had your communal wanks in the school toilets. Or were you guys screwing each other behind a bar again?"

Stars flash before my eyes as a fist collides with my nose with a sickening crunch. I resist the urge to cry out in pain as the blood begins to flow down my face. They laugh again. I try to escape but their grip holds tight. They hit me again, and again. I begin to feel woozy from the loss of blood. Somewhere, I can hear cars. People are in those cars. Surely they can see me. Why won't they stop and help me? Why won't anyone protect me?

I'm moving. I can't see, my eyes are sore and swollen and shut, but I can sense it. I numbly attempt to fight back as they begin to swing me but it achieves nothing; I go flying through the air a moment later, landing on water that feels as hard as concrete. Then I start to sink. Shit. I open my eyes and flail about; I haven't swum in years and I barely remember how. Looking up, I can see them all standing there, laughing at me from the land. I hate them, I begin to wish that I was more like Dad; he'd have no problem gouging out their eyes…

No time to contemplate that, I realise as I swallow a mouthful of filthy water. No time to think about what I could be. Not now. I seem to be able to stay afloat if I move my legs and arms fast enough. I look up again briefly; they're not there anymore. I try to call for help but my head slips under the water again, and I swallow another mouthful of it. Slowly, I begin to splash my way towards the concrete platform at the water's edge. It takes a while, and I swallow a lot of water, but I reach it eventually and immediately begin coughing up the water I swallowed. My entire body shakes with the force of my retching and my head's spinning and the ground seems to move beneath me. I flop onto my back, completely exhausted. With a tired hand, I reach up and carefully feel my nose; I think it's broken. I raise my other hand and take hold of my nose very gently before I push it back into its proper position. I cry out in pain as I do so, tears coming unbidden to my eyes. The pain is extreme but it's fading quickly. I allow my arms to flop back to the ground as I pant through the pain. I think I might just lie here for a while before I go home.


	4. Quality Time

**Quality Time**

I can hear the shower running as soon as I step into the apartment. I have to admit, I wasn't expecting it. I didn't think I'd see Dad for another couple of weeks, or at least until next Saturday when he finds out that I'm going to go back on my word and perform anyway.

Heading to my room, I get changed out of my damp clothes and put new ones on. I throw the damp ones in the corner (I'll deal with them once Dad has left), and I go back out to the living area, sitting down awkwardly on the sofa. It sounds like Dad's going to be having a long shower. Meanwhile, I can't help but stare at the slightly opened door to his room. I'm not allowed in there, he's made that perfectly clear and, most of the time, I have no need or desire to go in there. But, after today… Well, let's just say a need's come up.

It's tantalising. The idea of being able to protect yourself just one closed door away from where you're sitting. The water is still running in the bathroom. And then, once the water's off, he's going to have to reapply his greasepaint. I'll probably have time; plenty of it.

The floorboards creak slightly as I try to tread lightly into Dad's room. The door squeaks; I know it's barely audible above the water but it sounds incredibly loud to me. I'm sure I'll be caught. But I creep in nonetheless, looking around at my father's lair.

An unmade bed with filthy sheets is stuck in the corner, his purple suit lying on the top where he probably tossed it. Packs of cards are scattered across the floor, the occasional loose card lies forlornly on the floorboards. But the reason I came in here is laying literally everywhere; dozens and dozens of knives lie all over the floor, in piles, on furniture, a couple stuck in the walls, just everywhere. It wouldn't surprise me in the slightest if he had thrown some of them into the wall when he was in a bad mood. And, with all the knives here, surely he wouldn't miss one?

The water stops. I spring across the room to a wall covered in knife handles. I haven't got long; he's probably only got the greasepaint to go now. I select a handle at random and tug, pulling the blade out of the wall with a sudden jerk. I inspect the blade quickly; it seems to be fine. I turn to leave and my heart leaps into my throat. Dad is standing in the doorway, a towel around his waist, his hair re-dyed and dripping and fresh greasepaint on his face. Shit. He must have left the water running while he applied the greasepaint, a small voice inside of me chirps merrily. The expression on Dad's face keeps me from dwelling on that thought. He's furious and barely managing to conceal it.

He takes a few more steps towards me; I instinctually take the same number of steps away from him. He closes the door behind him with a snap. "Put that knife _back_," he says slowly. I numbly follow his instructions, what else can I do? He motions to the bed. "Sit," he says in a deadly whisper. I perch on the edge of his bed, watching him approach me. He waves my gaze away so I avert my eyes. I assume he's changing back into his suit. But, obviously, I'm not going to look and check to see if I'm right.

He takes his time getting changed. I can almost feel the seconds tick by as I stare at the wall.

"I _thought_ I told you that you're no_t_ to come in here." I don't take his talking as a sign to turn around but, evidently, I should have. "_Look. At. Me_," he growls so I meekly turn around. His purple coat is still on the bed but he's got the rest of his suit on. He ignores me now that he's got my attention and ties his tie. I watch his tongue flick to the corners of his mouth. It moves slowly, rolling over every scar. It's a little hypnotic, watching his hands fly around his tie while his tongue rolls around his lips.

"What was the knife for Andrew?" His bluntness surprises me. I stare at him while he looks down at himself, making minor adjustments to his suit. "Well?" He asks, rolling the l's as he picks up his gloves.

My throat is dry as I try to swallow. "I needed it to, to… for revenge." Dad slides his gloves on with an amused expression. "Not against you," I mutter. "For self-defence. Against the others." I end up whispering, embarrassed and ashamed. "I need to stop the others from attacking me; I need to show them I'm not afraid."

He puts on his coat, slowly. Then he looks at me; he _stares_ at me. His eyes start to narrow and he strides towards me; my heart starts to pound. He reaches across to the wall behind my head and tugs a knife out; a few flakes of paint flutter to the floor. "But you are afraid," he says eventually. I stare down at my feet and shrug. "Come on," he mutters, grabbing my arm in an iron grip. I stand up and he begins to pull me towards the door. I assume he's going to push me out of his room but he continues to pull me out of the apartment. His fingers dig into my arm; he doesn't seem to notice me as he begins to pull me down the stairs with him. "It's _all_ part of the _plan_," he mutters so softly that I can barely hear him over the sound of our footsteps.

Outside, he lets go of my arm, pushing me to the ground. I go to stand up but he raises a finger and I settle back on the ground. I watch him rummage through his pockets and pull out his phone with a smile. He looks at me and raises a finger to his lips; he shouldn't have bothered, I'm not going to say a word. He looks back down at the phone and dials a number, smiling as he does it. It rings for a long while then someone on the other end answers. I could guess who from the minute he started to speak.

"Goo_d even_ing Com_miss_ioner. And how are we this _fine_ night?" He looks back to me and motions for me to get up. I do so, getting slowly off the ground as he pouts slightly. "That's hardly a friendly attitude. I just wanted to talk to the Bat," he speaks slowly, worrying me as to his intentions. "Yes, yes, yes, I know you're chasing him too. But he does have a habit of appearing when I start making demands, doesn't he? Now, I'm not suggesting that's got something to do with you, but it is a _lovely_ string of coincidences. If the Batman _doesn't_ meet me near Arkham, or _if_ I see _your_ men," Dad looks at me again. He runs his eyes up and down my body with a cold expression on his face. "The boy here… dies."

My heart skips a beat. I go to move back a step but he sees and beckons me back to him so I walk towards him instead of away from him. It's all I know to do. He grabs the back of my neck and pulls to make me stand in front of him; the leather of the glove is surprisingly cool and I shiver involuntarily. "Andrew," Dad says cheerfully from behind me, "the Commissioner doesn't believe you're here." He gives the phone to me. My hands are shaking; I turn my head to look up at him. He raises an eyebrow and motions to the phone.

"Hello?" I ask into the phone.

"Hello? Andrew? Is that your name son?" A tinny voice comes forth from the phone, surprising me. It makes Dad's death threat real. A cold chill runs down my spine.

I tremble a little; I can feel Dad's breath on the back of my ear. He's leaning down to listen to the conversation and I don't want to say anything wrong. "Yes," I offer. "Yes, that's my name."

The voice sighs. "Are you alright son? Has he hurt you?"

I hesitate for a moment. "No… not badly."

"Ok, don't worry Andrew. I'm sending my best men right now. We're going to get you-" Dad reaches around and grabs the phone out of my shaking hands.

"Well, I think that proves his existence. Batman has thirty minutes." He hangs up and slams the phone back into his pocket. "Come on," he mutters again, steering me along the street, his hand still on my neck. He heads for a set fire escape stairs on a building overlooking Arkham Asylum. He says nothing as we climb, nothing when we reach the roof, nothing as he pushes me to the middle and takes out his knife. He stands slightly behind me and presses the knife close to my throat, forcing me to press my back into his chest for fear of cutting myself otherwise. We stand in silence for what seems like forever.

"You wanted me?" A deep growl comes from somewhere behind us. Dad turns around, turning me with him. And I can't help but stare at the infamous Batman. A black suit that seemed totally invincible, the cowl with the pointed bat ears and the long, black cape that hangs limp in the lack of a breeze. He looks… awe-inspiring.

"Indeed I did," I can hear Dad suck his teeth very close to my ear. I try hard not to react. "And I'm _so… thrilled…_ you got here on time. I'm positively _delighted_ my message got through after all. I'd _hate_ to have to _kill_ Andrew here for _no_ reason." I close my eyes, willing myself to remain silent and unobtrusive.

"Let go of the boy."

Dad's head is close by my face now; I can hear his breathing in my ear. "If you… end up going to the M…C…U…" he whispers softly, "you _lie_." I nod my head slightly. His breathing vanishes from my ear and I assume he's straightened up again. There's a burning sensation in my neck and I fling my hands up to it. It feels warm and sticky and it throbs as if my heart was beating in my throat. I pull my hand away, watching the blood run down my fingers. Dad's let go of my neck so I take a few steps away from him, still clutching my throat.

Batman moves towards Dad quickly. I trip over my feet and fall, landing heavily on my butt as I watch them grabble. Dad's still wielding the knife; I can see him stick it between the plates of Batman's suit. He stumbles backwards, giving Dad enough time to run back to where I'm sitting, crouching down beside me, putting his hand on my shoulder, patting down my hair with his knife in his hand. One false slip, I think, he's going to cut my ear off.

"Shhh, shhh, shhh," he whispers as Batman starts to approach us. "Careful Bats," Dad warns. "I jus_t…_ migh_t…_ sli_p_." He lets the knife slip a little, nicking my ear and drawing blood. I wince as the blood slowly trickles down my cheek. Batman stops where he's standing.

"You don't want to hurt him."

I can almost imagine Dad's smile. "_Oh_," he chuckles, the knife shaking in his grasp, making small cuts on my cheek. "But I _do_…"

I pull away from Dad with a sudden jerk. He doesn't hold onto me tight enough and I scramble away on all fours as the Batman sprints past me. I can hear growls, grunts; I ignore them all, trying desperately to get to the other side of the roof, to where the fire escape stairs are. It feels like my heart has moved up to my head as the throbbing gets worse. I don't think he cut me deep but it's certainly bleeding enough.

It's quiet up here now; the only noise is Dad quietly chuckling. Curiosity makes me turn around to see Batman holding Dad by the collar of his suit. Dad hangs there meekly, but his hands aren't handcuffed and nothing looks broken. I frown slightly. That seemed too easy. Dad hardly fought back. It's like he wanted to be caught.

Batman drops Dad onto the ground as I realise I can hear footsteps running up the fire escape stairs. It's got to be the police. As Batman turns and disappears over the edge of the roof, Dad rolls his head to look at me wiggles his eyebrows with a smug expression on his face. I look blankly back at him before slowly getting to my feet. It only takes a second for Dad to be up again and darting across the roof towards me, only this time the police are here. I can hear them getting closer as Dad towers over me, grabbing me by the front of my shirt and pulling me up off the ground. He touches the tip of the knife to my nose and leans down close to my face. "Make it convincing," he snarls and I forget how to breathe. He looks up at the sound of guns being cocked and smiles a horrible smile. After a few seconds he drops the knife off to the side, then lets go of my shirt and I fall back onto the concrete. It hurts, but I feel safer down here. I can hear footsteps getting closer and a few heavily armed officers move forwards to take Dad down, while one grabs me by the arm and pulls me to my feet, running me back over to the fire escape stairs and gesturing for me to leave. He didn't have to tell me twice. I start running down the stairs only to be greeted by half a dozen cop cars and a couple of SWAT trucks. A young female officer comes forwards and pulls me away from the stairs, doing her best to distract me with small talk, but I can't help but look over my shoulder as the SWAT team marches Dad down the stairs and across the street, towards Arkham Asylum. I guess this happens so often they don't even bother with the formalities anymore.

"Are you Andrew?" I'm brought back to earth as the officer addresses me. I just notice that she has a tissue covered in blood in her hand; she'd been dabbing at my cuts. "That's your name, isn't it?" She notices me looking down at the tissue and she shrugs. "We're still waiting on the ambulance," she explains.

"Um…" I pause for a moment, remembering Dad's words about what I was to do if they took me to the MCU. "Yeah… My name's Andrew." I've got to get away. I can't deal with this.

"Good," she says with a sympathetic smile. "I'm Officer Breen. I'll be back in a minute with something to dress your cuts while we wait."

I watch her go with a small smile. This couldn't be more perfect. I take a few slow steps backwards before I turn and sprint towards the end of the street. I round the corner, running as fast as I can. I'm not on the right street but that doesn't matter; if anyone's following me, I'll have to lose them before I head home. Up ahead of me, a pile of black falls from a rooftop, landing in the middle of the street and slowly standing, taking the form of a man or a… Shit. Batman. I'm tempted to stop but I can hear cars; police cars, and I know I've got to keep moving. They'll be looking for me. There's an alley just ahead; if I can shake off the Batman and the police, it loops around to my street.

Crouching behind a dumpster in the alley, I daren't move when I see the silhouette of Batman at the opposite end. I'm trapped; police on one side, Batman on the other. He sees me, I know he does cause he walks directly towards me. I stand up and lean against the wall as he gets nearer, trying desperately to look braver than I feel. He stares down at me; he must be around Dad's height, perhaps a little taller.

"The police only want to help you." His voice is low and gruff yet, not as animalistic as Dad's. Batman sounds gravelly but Dad just sounds feral. I think that probably shows the differences between Dad and Batman. I mean, Batman's got the same sort of presence as Dad does, but I'm not scared of him like I am with Dad. Well, not the same kind of scared. I think the voice has something to do with it.

"I know but," I stop myself, wondering if I've said too much already. I can see Batman's eyes narrow as he stares at my face. Perhaps I look like Dad; maybe I have his eyes or nose. No, it's ridiculous, I tell myself. Batman cannot see Dad in my face. The sense of anonymity makes me feel stronger. "He wouldn't like it if I told them anything."

Batman frowns at me, like I've said something completely deranged. "They will protect you," he growls.

I scoff, squeezing the cut on my throat. "No one can protect me from D-" I pause, quickly correcting myself. "From the Joker. Arkham's a short walk from here. Unless they're going to buy me a new home somewhere far from here," I shrug, moving one of my hands to the cuts on my cheek. "Let's just say I wouldn't want to be me if he breaks out and finds out that I went to the police. No," I shake my head. "It's safer for me if I just go home."

Batman's gloved hand clamps down on my shoulder as I turn to leave. I freeze, looking at it, following the hand back up the arm to its owner. "Then tell me what I want to know," he growls and I can see his eyes narrow underneath the cowl. I start to panic a little.

"There is nothing, _nothing_ that I can tell you that would be of interest to you or worth my life."I try to pull away but he holds on tighter.

"Tell me your full name and I will let you go." He sounds angry at the compromise. I can't help that, I think.

I suck my teeth with a pop, mimicking Dad, showing more confidence than I currently possessed. "Or what?"

His face remains emotionless. "The police will still be looking for you. I know where you are. And I will tell them." He lets go of my shoulder and takes a pace back. I look around the alley for my escape route.

"The police reckon you're Public Enemy Number One," I say quietly, trying to make myself sound tougher, or smarter. I want him to see me as someone not to be taken lightly. "You wouldn't tell them anything. They'd arrest you as soon as they caught sight of you."

After a moment, his mouth twitches and he smiles and I am afraid. It's Dad's smile, the smile of a man who knows he's stronger and faster and smarter than the opponent before him. "Gordon's men will be looking for you. I can leave you somewhere for them to find."

I take a deep breath and gently pinch the cut on the throat that Dad gave me. "You're no different," I spit, bitter and scared. "Andrew Napier," I say quickly, raising my eyebrows, challenging him to deny my claim. "Are you happy now? Andrew Napier." I take a few steps backwards towards the end of the alley, still watching the Batman. He doesn't make a move to stop me so I turn and I run. He doesn't follow, but that doesn't make me feel any better. Police cars are cruising the streets, probably looking for me, so I wait and I plan my exit and when the coast is clear, I make a run for home. And I get there without anyone pulling up or spotting me, and I start to feel safe again. I climb the stairs to the apartment, anxious that the door to the building'll burst open at any second and a cop will call my name, but it never happens. I go into the apartment and lock the door behind me and sigh deeply. This is it. Alone for how long now? The police know I exist, Batman knows I exist, Dad's got something planned. How long before one of them kicks my door down and drags me out onto the street?

Fuck it. I'm going to take one of Dad's knives anyway.


	5. Mad Clowns and Harlequins

**Mad Clowns and Harlequins**

"Ok, movie, two words, first word."

I nod at Emilia and assume a crouching position, holding my elbows to my chest and waving my lower arms around, my hands curled into fists except for two fingers on each hand that are slightly bent to simulate claws. I open my mouth as wide as I can, making a mock snarling face with crazy eyes as I wave my lower arms around. I walk around on the carpet in small circles, turning around and snarling at Emilia occasionally.

"You're a dinosaur," Emilia thinks aloud, leaning forwards on the sofa as she watches me make a fool of myself. "Dinosaur, dinosaur… It's Jurassic Park!" She yells, the excitement clearly visible on her face. Straightening up, I nod curtly as I hold my dinosaur arms in position, wiggling my finger-claws at her.

Emilia's mother sticks her head into the living room. "This has to be the loudest game of charades I've ever heard," she says with a small smile on her face. "There are other people in this building too, you know."

"Ok Mom," Emilia calls back, stifling a giggle as I approach her and wiggle my finger-claws in her face. "What the hell are you doing that for you idiot?" She says with a broad smile on her face.

"Dunno," I grin as I collapse next to her on the sofa. The tinkle of Gotham Tonight's theme music starts in the background. I forgot the tv was even on.

"Good evening, I'm Lydia Filangeri and this is Gotham Tonight." I'm tempted to go up and turn it off; it's an old habit. But this is Emilia's house and I'm just a guest here. Over the past month since Dad went to Arkham, I've been coming here more frequently and, consequently, I have been watching the news with Emilia. She always watches it. "And tonight, in light of this afternoon's breakout, we bring you a special report on the Joker."

Emilia's eyes go wide and she slowly turns her head to look at me. I swallow nervously. I hadn't heard about a breakout but, then again, I never seem to hear about them. "Do you… want me to change the channel?" She asks timidly. I can't blame her; Dad's usually a taboo subject for us unless I specifically bring him up in conversation.

I shake my head. "I think I kinda want to see this." We keep our voices low so her mother doesn't overhear us. Emilia's the only one who knows that the Joker is my father and I'd prefer it if it stayed that way. It's just that her mother's a psychologist and he father's a cop and if they found out, well… I can only imagine what'd happen.

We watch the report in silence. The reporter recounts the 'horror' of my father's all-out attack on Gotham City, the 'sheer terror' that the ferry passengers must have felt when they found out they were sitting on 'two ticking time bombs.' I let my attention wander for some of it but, for the majority of the events, it was the first time I had heard it talked about by someone other than Dad so I sat in fixed attention. I saw parts of Dad's video threats for the first time. It honestly didn't faze me all that much. That Batman wannabe looked like he had it easy in comparison to what I get landed with. Sure, he was dead, but some scars are harder to live with. What would Gotham think if they saw some of the stuff Dad's done to me?

"The Joker's infamous ability to escape from Arkham Asylum has never been overlooked and, as would be expected with a criminal of this calibre, every possible precaution was made in apprehending the Joker's seemingly inevitable escape. However, despite being held there for just over a month, the combined efforts of the police and doctors proved to be futile in keeping him there." I can sense Emilia's gaze. I ignore her. I _have_ to ignore her. I _need_ to hear this.

"Dr Harleen Quinzel has been the Joker's doctor at Arkham for going on nine months. Dedicated, passionate and hard-working, not one of her colleagues thought it unusual for Dr Quinzel to spend six days a week as the asylum, a majority of that time spent with none other than the Joker." My eyes narrow as a photo of a woman comes on screen. She's pretty, in the skinny Hollywood bookish style, with long blonde hair pulled into a tight ponytail and glasses perched on the tip of her nose. Quinzel, I think, scowling slightly at the photograph. She has no idea what she's getting herself into with Dad. She looks so young and sure of herself; Dad must have loved that. He loves bringing confident people down a peg or ten.

"Authorities were shocked this afternoon when security cameras caught Quinzel, dressed in a skin-tight bodysuit, releasing the Joker from his cell and accompanying him out of the asylum, the pair killing three security guards in the process." A picture from the security camera is on the screen before it goes back to the reporter who has a solemn look on her face. "Only time will tell if Dr Quinzel will live long enough to see the madness that she has unleashed upon Gotham City. I'm Lydia Filangeri and you've been watching Gotham Tonight." The credits roll and I look in brief surprise at the clock on the wall; it's been half an hour. I really should be getting home. Now more than ever.

"Geez, I've really got to get going Emilia." She nods in understanding, getting up as I run over to the kitchen and stick my head through the door. "Thanks for this afternoon Mrs Cooper."

Emilia's mother looks up at me in surprise. "Oh, you're going now, are you Andrew?" I nod the affirmative, desperately wishing I could check the time without looking rude. "Are you sure you don't want to stay for dinner?"

I smile as pleasantly as I can. "No thank you Mrs Cooper. My father will be wondering where I am." Well, I guess it's sort of the truth. With a final smile and nod, I turn back to where Emilia was waiting and walk with her to the front door. She opens it for me but grabs my hand as I make to leave.

"If anything happens," she squeezes my hand, "_anything_, you ring me and I'll come and help you." I nod, grateful for her concern but fully aware that I wouldn't call her under any circumstances. I won't risk dragging her into anything. She lets go of my hand, understanding my silence as a mute agreement. I smile as I walk away.

Emilia lives on the other side of Gotham in a large, clean apartment in a respectable part of the city overlooking the river. Despite the long walks, I think it's a good thing that I live on the other side of the city. It makes me feel like she's safer that way. Cause, everyone knows that the Narrows is the worst part of Gotham. Bad stuff happens there on a regular basis. The Scarecrow's fear toxin is just the most famous incident. And that's only cause it threatened to affect the rest of Gotham too.

I follow the river round the island whenever I have to walk home. It may not be the fastest route, but it is a nice walk. That is, it's a nice walk until you get to the bridges connecting the Narrows to the island. The Narrows are dirty, corrupt, overcrowded and industrial-looking. But, at the same time, the small island feels like home to me. I feel safe there. There are places I can hide and people who will help me. For someone like me, the Narrows are a lot safer than any other part of Gotham. But that's not really a good thing though, is it? I suppose I should feel safer anywhere except the Narrows but, you know what they say; you fear what you don't understand. And I understand the Narrows; how to slip around unnoticed, what alleys will take you back to which roads, which roofs are close enough to allow you to jump across. I know it and it makes me feel safe here. Well, as safe as the son of the Joker can feel.

Standing out on the street in front of the apartment, I look casually around in the dark before I pluck up the courage to go inside. It's dark inside as well; Dad and Quinzel are evidently not here. I breathe a sigh of relief and creep to my room, closing the door behind me. _If_ Dad comes here sometime tonight, I definitely do not want to see him. I'd prefer it if he just forgot that I existed.

I kick my shoes off and lie on my bed, uninterested in crawling under the sheet and too tired to bother changing out of my jeans. I doze for a while, not totally asleep but not fully awake either. My mind floats, travelling to strange, distant places that I'd fought hard to forget. I remember that night, meeting Batman, Dad cutting me, being thrown in the river… It's all in painful clarity, the sensations, the emotions, the complete and absolute fear…

A loud crash shatters the night. I jolt upright, almost falling out of the bed. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I gingerly get out of bed, standing silently on the bare floorboards. I'm sorely tempted to go and see what was happening out there but I'm sure I can guess. Still… I pad quietly to the closed door and open it a fraction, peering out into the darkness. Darkness stares back at me but I can still hear… What was that noise? Moaning, squeaking, growling… I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment and close the door, padding quietly back to bed. I _really_ don't need to hear that kind of thing.

* * *

Sunlight assaults my eyes and I roll over, trying desperately to get a few more minutes of sleep. It's no use though. I'm awake. Reluctantly, I open my eyes and slowly get out of bed. Rummaging through my wardrobe, I pick out some clean underwear, jeans and a t-shirt and head to the main room. The shower's running but I can have something to eat while I wait for Dad to get out.

Dumping my clean clothes on the sofa, I grab a slice of bread and lean against the wall, pulling chunks out of the bread and popping them into my mouth. The shower stops so I grab my clothes and perch on the arm of the sofa, watching the bathroom door, waiting for it to open. I'm almost presenting myself to Dad, reminding him that I'm here, that I haven't run away or done something stupid, so that later he can't accuse me of betraying him. As long as I'm here for him to see, I do sort of have his protection from the police and from Batman. I get to stay where it's safer.

The door flies open with a sudden bang. I jump a little as steam from the hot water billows out around the form of a naked woman. About the same time that I realise that she has no clothes on, she notices me and shrieks, jumping backwards and grabbing a towel. I turn my head and hide my face in my hands as I feel my cheeks burn red. I've never been so embarrassed in my whole life.

There's a crash and a cry of "fuck" as Dad appears at the door to his room, dressed in only his greasepaint and underwear. I peek at him between my fingers before I close my eyes again. My cheeks are on fire. "What?" He snaps, rounding on the woman. He seems to not have seen me which is fine by me.

"You didn't tell me someone else lived here Mistah J!" Her voice is a little high-pitched but it was getting calmer and more in control now. She seems to have gotten over the shock of seeing me. I wish I could say that I'd gotten over the shock of seeing _her_.

I remove my hands from over my face as Dad rounds on me. "What are _you_ doing here?" He yells at me, approaching me with a menacing swagger, although some of the effect has been lost considering he's only wearing boxers.

"I live here. Remember?" I bite back, pretending to have more confidence than I really possessed. "I think the real question is what are _you_ doing here?"

Dad raises his hand and strikes me across the face. The force behind it sends me rolling off the sofa and onto the floor, landing heavily on my stomach. I pant a little, trying to get my breath back after he knocked the wind out of me. Snarling a little, I roll over onto my back, glaring up at Dad. He looks amused. "You've got a bit of _fight_ in you now? I leave for a month and you grow a pair?" He says, crouching down next to me. His crotch is uncomfortably close to my face so I avert my eyes. If he notices, he doesn't say anything as he grabs my jaw in a grip of iron, squeezing painfully. I grab his wrist in a vain attempt to pull him off me. We stare at each other for a long time.

"Mistah J?" The woman asks tentatively, now wrapped in a towel as she takes a few steps out of the bathroom. Her voice is significantly calmer now and I can't help but watch her movements out of the corner of my eyes. She intrigues me. As a psychologist she can't be as stupid as her decision makes her out to be, so why did she do it? Dad notices my attention and cocks his head, raising an eyebrow. He scowls as I let go of his wrist and smile at him. Then he lets go of my jaw and hits me again, opening up my lip. I grimace as I taste my blood.

He stands up when I don't fight back, fixing the woman with a harsh glare. When she doesn't move, he waves her away with his hand and she gets the message, going back to his room. He doesn't look back at me as he follows her, closing the door behind him.

I've decided to give up the luxury of a shower this morning; I don't smell _that_ bad and I just don't think the risk is worth it. Getting up off the floor, I grab my clothes from where they've scattered and head back to my bedroom, making sure to securely close the door behind me. I change quickly and leave the apartment as quietly as possible, trying not to disturb the chorus of moans, squeaks and grunts coming once more from Dad's bedroom.


	6. A Dish Best Served Cold

**A Dish Best Served Cold**

School flies by in a blur. It always does. The chore of classes, teachers and peers makes it all zoom past my eyes in a multi-coloured blur while I focus on nothing and remember none of it. It doesn't really matter, does it? I'm only here because I have to be. Although…

The final bell rings and the horde of kids swarm out of the school, each rushing to complete his or her meaningless afternoon of triviality. I smile a little as I watch them leave. They don't notice my watching. I like to watch people, notice what they do and the way that they do it. It intrigues me, tells me lots about them. I watch girls preen themselves in the mirrors in their lockers before rushing to kiss their boyfriends. I can see an inconspicuous package pass between different hands as the pair stand in the corner. It's all so pretentious and _obvious_. So predictable. It happens every day.

A bag hits me on the side of my head as the careless owner rushes past me and down the rest of the stairs. I'm tempted to go make him pay but he's just a kid. It doesn't matter. Not today, anyway. No, I don't think anything could dampen my mood at the moment.

I watch the rest of them leave. Considering the amount of kids at this school, it doesn't take that long to clear the building. Even the teachers leave pretty quickly. Most of them do anyway. I know there are some still here but it doesn't matter; I can't wait.

I head down the stairs, to the lowest levels of the school. Despite the light still outside, it's dark down here, with somewhat of an ominous feel to it. I slip the janitor's key from my pocket and approach the big, heavy steel door at the end of the hallway. No one comes down here but me. And I knew this day would come. I'd been preparing for months. Stealing the key, sneaking the supplies in here, I knew the preparations wouldn't be in vain.

The key slides in the keyhole without a sound. I can't help but grin as it turns and the lock clicks open. A cold, stale draft blows across my face as the door swings open a little. Withdrawing the key and replacing it back in my pocket, I creep down the stairs, my hand gliding across the wall in search of the light switch. I feel it beneath my fingertips and close my eyes. Confidently, I push down on the button.

The cavernous basement is flooded with light, revealing the 23 oil drums I'd hidden down here. I blink rapidly, bringing them into focus. Twenty-three exactly. Not much, I know, but it was all I could find. They're not exactly easy to get, transport and hide, even if you know the right people. I race down the rest of the stairs, taking care not to fall or make too much noise. I don't want anyone coming in and spoiling the surprise, now do I?

I spend a while checking the wiring; it's all gotta look just so. It's gotta be right. Then, the detonator. I'll admit it, I didn't make it. I borrowed it. From Dad. He's got a dozen lying around in various stages of assembly. It's really just a matter of wiring it right. I think it'll be ok. Then, the detonator goes back in its not so carefully gift-wrapped box. The box looks just like the boxes Dad made just before the incident with the ferries. I think it's a plausible representation but really, would anyone know the difference? The box sits on the nearest oil drum to the door. The letter gets pulled unceremoniously from my pocket and hastily smoothed out on the top of a drum. I guess the words and letters cut out from the newspaper and stuck on the paper makes it look like a 'Joker letter.' But, what else could I do? What does one of Dad's letter's look like? Obviously I can't use my own handwriting; they'd pick that up straight away. And sticking cut out letters on a piece of paper is so tv movie but it'll do. It'll have to do.

There is a noise upstairs. A crash, talking, footsteps. Oh shit. I scan the basement for a hiding place as the footsteps approach the door. I settle on a small space beneath the wooden stairs and behind a pile of cardboard boxes as the footsteps get louder.

Squatting behind the boxes, I watch a pair of shoes descend the stairs. They pause for a moment, then move faster. Peering out from behind a box, I see Principal Kane holding the letter in one hand and the box in the other. The paper is shaking. His hands are trembling. He opens the lid of the box slightly and, without a word, he closes the lid, turns and runs out of the basement, taking the box and letter with him.

Cautiously, I crawl out of my hiding place, desperate to get out of the school. I can't hear anyone so I creep up the stairs, taking care to move as quickly and as silently as possible. I can't be caught down here; it would ruin everything. Months of careful planning and preparation would go to waste because of one stupid blunder. I can't let that happen. I won't let that happen.

Outside, I run along the hallway, approaching the main staircase when I hear footsteps coming back down. Instinctually, I duck into the nearest classroom and stand up. Pretending to turn off the light, I open the door just in time to bump into Principal Kane at the base of the stairs. He looks stressed and worried. Perfect.

"Principle Kane," I say, putting on my best surprised face. "What's wrong sir?"

He looks twice at me before he says anything. "Uh, Andrew, isn't it?" He asks and I nod the affirmative. "Nothing, nothing. Carry on." He dismisses me with a wave and turns away before his head snaps round to look at me again. "How long have you been here? What are you doing?"

I shake my head and shrug my shoulders. "Not long. I was looking for my phone. I lost it but I guess it's not down here."

"Did you see anyone else down here?"

"No… No one except for you."

"Ok." He dismisses me again and turns to the open basement door. "You should get home. It's late. Your parents will be wondering what's happened to you."

I can't help but smile as I walk away from him. "Yes. I'm sure they will be."

* * *

The police arrived not long after I left the school. I watched them from a nearby rooftop, the flashing lights, the sirens, the dozens of people swarming everywhere. It was all really very exciting. For me, anyway. They were obviously worried. I mean, what appeared to be a bomb had appeared in the basement of the school with a letter that they supposed was from the Joker because it threatened the death of hundreds and the destruction of several public buildings if the bomb wasn't detonated at ten o'clock the next morning.

But it's not a bomb.

Really, it's not a bomb. Honest. I built it myself, I should know. The oil drums are empty, the wires don't really connect to anything important and the detonator isn't going to destroy anything if you push it. Well, I don't think it'll destroy anything. If it does… Whoops? Blame Dad for that one.

But, no. No bomb in this school. Just an elaborate hoax designed to attract attention to my dear father. My revenge. My plan, twisted as it may seem, was to elevate the manhunt they've got going on for Dad. Make it so he can't leave the apartment without running the risk of getting caught. He'll go mad cooped up inside all day and night. And, with a few well timed tip-offs, Dad should be back in Arkham by the end of the month. Quinzel too. And I won't have to deal with either of them for a long while. I reckon Quinzel's been helping him escape for a while now and she's finally decided to join him. Stupid cow. What motivates a mind like that? She's got to be sicker than he is.

But… Kane coming down to the basement… That was a mistake. I covered well but it shouldn't have happened. I should have waited for longer before going down. I should've made my final preparations tonight. I'm the only one with a key to that basement and there's no way he would've gone down there if I hadn't left the door open and turned on the light. It happened early and that was my fault. He caught me in the wrong place and that was my mistake. He might give my name to the police and… Well, after my last encounter with them, that might not go down too well. I give the cops a lot of crap but they're not so stupid as to not see the obvious connection. They'll put two and two together and then where will I be? Stuck in a foster home? Put in witness protection? Locked up? I just want the freedom to continue my life as normal, but I bet they won't see it that way. I guess I'll just have to deal with that when and if the time comes.

Slowly I rise to my feet, allowing the blood to flow back to my limbs as I stare at the school. They would have figured that it wasn't a bomb by now. They'd have to have worked it out by now. Surely. And so it's probably only a matter of time before people come looking for me. I could hide. I know places around here. But Dad would find me. He always does. And he'd kill me for making him take the rap. But if I go home and the police come looking, I'd be leading them right to Dad. What could it hurt?


	7. Interrogations

**Interrogations**

I knew who it was the second I heard the knocking. Short, sharp, authoritative; it could only be the knocking of a cop.

Quinzel looks up as Dad appears at the door to his room. They both watch the front door. Dad silently orders Quinzel back to his room as I stand and approach the front door. The atmosphere is tense. I can hear his bedroom door close and I know he's going to be listening to every word of the conversation I'm about to have. What's worse is the fact that I know that if I make a mistake, I'm dead.

Opening the door a fraction, I sigh quietly when I see the GCPD uniform and open the door to its full extent. The officer looks down at me. "Andrew Napier?"

"That's me," I say, trying to appear as innocent and clueless as possible. "What can I help you with officer?"

"I need to speak to your parents. I'm required to take you down to the MCU for questioning."

I knew it. "My father's still at work." I reach behind me for my set of keys and, upon grabbing them, I slide them into my pocket. "I'll come now, if you want." He raises an eyebrow as I step out the door and pull it closed behind me. I smile nervously. "My parents always told me to cooperate with the police." Actually, that's the exact opposite of what Dad's told me but somehow I don't think it would be entirely appropriate to say so. I've got to appear innocent and law-abiding.

A second officer appears behind the shoulder of the first one. He must have been out of sight just down the hallway while the first one talked to me. "Come with us, son."

I follow the pair down the stairs and out of the building to their patrol car. Glancing up at the apartment, I can see Quinzel in one of the windows. Neither of us makes any gesture to the other; we just stare until an officer opens the back door of the car and ushers me in. I don't look up to the window again as the car drives away. And I know she wasn't watching me get driven away.

The drive to the MCU seemed relatively short but, with my being extremely nervous, I'm sure it actually took quite a while and I just didn't notice the passage of time. I feel like I'm going to be sick. There's just so much pressure and everything's riding on what I say and do next. As the car pulls up in front of the building, I wait quietly in the back until an officer opens the door and escorts me inside.

We enter the foyer of the MCU and, as I watch it hum with activity, I notice that my palms are sweaty. I try to discretely wipe them on my jeans as I'm moved through the building, past holding cells and offices to a large, white metal door. An officer opens it slowly as we approach and the door creaks open, creating the ominous mood of an old horror film. Intimidation tactics, I'm sure. They're not sure who they're dealing with and they want to frighten me. I enter the room slowly, jumping as the door slams shut behind me. It's working. I'm scared.

The room before me is bare, except for a metal table and two chairs positioned on the opposite sides of it. Mindful of the one-way mirrors on both my right and left, I walk to the closest chair and take a seat, trying to appear calm and innocent as my mind whirls at an extraordinary speed. I know it's obvious that I'm afraid. If that's what they want me to be, then I'll be that. Dad's probably been interrogated in this room, I think as I lean back on the chair. I don't know why, but the thought relaxes me just a little, enough to make me lean forwards on the table in an attempt to look bored, my arms crossed and my head resting on them. They don't know our connection and they have no proof that I am responsible for what they found at the school today. The only link they can make between me and Dad was the scene in the Narrows the other month. And, even then, they hadn't found me after I'd run away so maybe that's been forgotten. Cause, it's not like anyone got hurt then. Suddenly I'm not scared anymore, but filled with quiet confidence. I can do this.

My head jerks up from where it had been resting on the table at the sound of the door opening once more. My mouth goes dry as the footsteps approach me. I remind myself of my alibi as the officer walks round the table to take the seat opposite mine. I can't help but stare as I recognise the woman sitting opposite me. And she obviously remembers me.

"Andrew Napier," she starts, apparently musing over my name. "It's good to see you again Andrew." She turns to the glass on my left and nods once before turning back to me. "I'm Officer Breen, but I'm sure you remember me." I hesitate but nod once, still trying to appear helpful. She smiles a genuinely warm smile and I immediately feel guilty, although for what I cannot say. "I'm required to tell you that this interview is being recorded so as to assist with current investigations." I nod again and she smiles again. "Now, before we can continue with the recent investigation, would you mind clearing up some inconsistencies with a previous investigation?" I shrug in a non-committal way and she beams. "Excellent. Now, for the record, would you mind explaining, in your own words, just how you found yourself in the company of the Joker on Sunday the 15th of August?"

I sit in stunned silence for a moment while my thoughts process themselves into a singular idea. Fuck. "Well," I begin hesitantly, trying to assess how much damage could be done if I accidentally said the wrong thing, "I was coming home after a long day and it was dark. I, er, I guess I should have known that cutting through an alley probably wasn't the smartest idea while walking through the Narrows in the dark but I was… anxious to get home, I guess." I watch her smile and nod at me and quickly decide that I found it infuriating. "I just ran into him," I finish in an anti-climatic way.

She 'hmmmmms' at me and I roll my eyes, exhaling heavily. "And so," she continues in a bright voice, "why exactly did you run away once we had rescued you?"

Resisting the urge to through in a smart-assed remark about Batman, I attempt to smile in a friendly manner. "I am very sorry about that officer. It's just that," I pause in an attempt to think of a suitable way to end this conversation and quickly. "It had been a traumatic experience and I was terrified for my family's safety. I thought that, perhaps, the Joker had decided to kill them and came looking for me." She nods along in what she obviously thought was a supportive manner. "I know it's foolish but I was too scared to stay. Everyone knows that the Joker is not too fond of the police and I don't think you could've helped me."

Again, she smiles and nods but I think I might have hit a nerve. "I completely understand Andrew, especially given the circumstances. Which brings me to the events of this afternoon." I nod slowly, waiting for her to elaborate, which she does without much hesitation. "You were seen by your principal after school hours in an area in which you were not supposed to be in. Consider that, minutes earlier, your principal discovered what appeared to be a bomb in the vicinity and then immediately ran into you. Do you have any idea what I'm about to ask you?"

My eyes go wide and my mouth goes slack in a brilliant imitation of surprise. "There was a _bomb_ in the school?" I whisper as I process all that she just told me. "Do you know who put it there?"

"That's the question we'd like you to answer." She smiles again and I fight to keep the mask of surprise on my face. "It _appears_ to be left there by the Joker however; your sudden appearance at the crime scene when your principal was sure there was no one else there does raise a few questions."

"I didn't do it," I say hurriedly, shaking my head. "I mean, why would I? I was only down there because my phone had gone missing and I was trying to find it." I lean forwards on the table, as though I was going to confide in her. "I get picked on a lot and sometimes, the guys'll take my stuff and hide it in random classrooms. I was just trying to find my phone. I didn't see anyone else down there, just Principal Kane. I had no idea there was a bomb down there."

She smiles sympathetically and, nodding to the glass, stands up. I hesitantly follow suit. She holds out her hand and, after a tentative moment, I reach out and shake it. "Thank you for being so honest and co-operative Andrew. We'll be in touch if we need to know anything else." Part of me wants to scream, to sit her back down and tell her about everything, to send cars back home to get Dad, to beg for somewhere safe. But the feeling disappears as quickly as it came. I haven't got a choice here. I lie, I leave, and I stay alive. And that's all there is to it. She escorts me out of the room and to the foyer which is no less busy than when I first arrived. She offers to find someone to drive me home but I numbly turn down the offer. Sure, the MCU's a bit far away from the Narrows, but there's always the monorail if I don't feel like walking. She lets me go and I walk out the front door, a sense of freedom hanging in the air.

The night outside is dark and the moon is bright as I begin to walk home. The crisp night air feels glorious in comparison to the stale air of the interrogation room. However, I can't shake a slight unsettling feeling of being watched, perhaps even followed. I force myself to ignore it; I'm just being paranoid. After all, who'd want to follow me? I'm just some kid from the Narrows, hardly worth anyone's time.

Slowly, the streets I'm walking through seem to empty until I'm the only one there. To be frank, it creeps me out. Fighting the urge to run, I stand still in a deserted street, calmly listening for breathing, footsteps, anything that would give my stalker away.

"You went to the police."

"Actually," I begin, turning to face Batman, "they came to me. Bomb at the school." I can see his eyes narrow under his cowl. I grit my teeth, almost expecting to be backhanded for my rude response. When the blow doesn't come, I take it upon myself to continue. "What do you want this time?"

"Information," he growls so deeply I had to take a moment to ensure that I'd heard him correctly.

"I can't help you with that. I've got nothing. Now… if I can go…?" I'm not sure why I asked. But, he does seem like the kind of man that you'd give authority to.

He grabs my shoulder in an impossibly tight grip. "Not about your school," he growls and I swallow nervously. "I know all about you. Your mother died when you were two, you and your father moved to Gotham shortly after. Your father found odd jobs but, by the time you were six, he'd disappeared off the record altogether. You attend Gotham High with your best friend Emilia Cooper and, on Saturday nights, you work at The Mean Mother, a bar in Old Gotham."

"There couldn't possibly be anything else to know then," I stare up at him, furious at the breach of privacy that had obviously occurred. "You know all there is to know about me."

"Not everything," he says, tightening his grip on my shoulder as I try to slide away. "Why are there no records of your father in the city?" I freeze, staring blankly ahead of me before I regather my thoughts enough to create an attempt to act relaxed. "No name listed, no photographs, nothing," he continues and what he's saying unnerves me more than I care to admit. "Jack Napier is the name the school has, but he doesn't exist anywhere else. Tell me," he whispers in a low growl. "Who is your father and why can't I find any record of him?"

I shiver, not because of the cool air, but because of the malice embedded into his words. For some reason I can't explain, I'm sure that Batman knows that my father is the Joker or, at least, has a strong suspicion that is the case. I think he just needs me to confirm it. He wants me to ask for help.

I pull away suddenly. He lets me go and I back away from him, shaking my head. "I don't know," I hear myself saying. "I don't know what you're talking about." He watches me with cold, unblinking eyes and I shiver again. I can't take it anymore. I can't tell him. I have to get away. I turn on my heel and begin to sprint, expecting that at any second I will be enveloped in black when Batman catches up to me but he never does. I don't look back; I can hardly look forwards. I run until I can't anymore and then I walk. And still, the Batman does not come.


	8. The Stuff of Nightmares

**The Stuff of Nightmares**

Dad and Quinzel have been gone for three weeks and still nothing's happened. They weren't there when I got back to the apartment after my encounters with the police and Batman. Not that I expected Dad to hang around. I knew he'd get out of there, just in case I was stupid enough to bring a cop or two back with me. And I knew Quinzel would go with him; she follows him around like a love struck teenager. I don't understand why though. I've seen the bruises on her neck, I know there's got to be others, I know he's not exactly gentle with her and, although she doesn't get the treatment that I get, she still gets it pretty bad. If I were her, I wouldn't be hanging around. It's not safe around Dad. People end up dead.

I haven't heard from the police either. But, I can't say I care much about that. The longer they leave me alone the better. And that goes for Batman too. My life would be so much simpler without their interference.

But all of this has made life quiet. Too quiet. I'm nervous most of the time now. I can't concentrate at school, I walk home in a daze; my only release comes on Saturday nights when I turn into Anita Badman. It's liberating to forget your life and just perform. But once I'm offstage, I'm me again. Alone, frightened, jumping at every shadow and, no matter how hard I try, I can't shake the feeling that Dad is going to get me back for setting the manhunt on him. And he knows I did it, he has to know.

The third Saturday night comes and almost goes without incident. But, as I take my place on the stage, I see her. Harleen Quinzel. Or, as she's become known, Harley Quinn. The song starts to play and I begin my act, but my eyes never leave hers. She watches me back through her small pair of glasses perched on her nose, bringing back the bookish appearance of a respected psychologist. Her long blonde hair, usually tied up in a pair of pigtails, is loose and flowing down her scarcely covered back and shoulders. She looks out of place here, amongst the queer crowd and the drag queens; a cis woman who obviously has no real interest in the social and cultural hub surrounding her. She never stops looking at me; not taking anything in, just watching.

I finish to a lacklustre applause but it doesn't surprise me. I went on later than usual tonight and, consequently, most of the patrons are too stoned or drunk to know where they are, let alone what's happening in front of them. It's a Saturday night in Gotham; none of us are here to be entertained, we're here to forget. I leave the stage in a hurry, but I can still feel her eyes on me. I know she's still watching me.

Once offstage, I summon up all my courage and peer through the curtain while the next queen takes the stage. Quinn's not at the bar anymore. I don't think she's inside at all. It worries me. Perhaps she's done her mission and gone back to Dad, but that's a fool's dream and I know it. Closing the curtain, I turn and head for the dressing room, changing back to Andrew Napier in a hurry.

I head out the back door alone tonight. Emilia told me she couldn't come tonight; she hasn't been feeling well lately. And, although she hasn't told me what's wrong, I know it's not good. She just looks unwell all the time now. And it does make me worried. She's usually the sort of person who would rather die than miss hanging out on a Saturday night.

There is a woman standing at the end of the street, her silhouette illuminated by the streetlight she's standing underneath. I know it's Quinn; I'd have to be an idiot not to realise. And it's at this moment that I could turn tail and flee into the night. But it's not wise. She's here for a reason. And, if Dad wants me dead, he'll do the deed himself.

She turns as I approach her. "You took a while," she says casually. But nothing about her body language suggests that this is going to be a casual meeting. She looks tense and glances around often. But, this might be because she's a wanted criminal. Or maybe Dad's watching us from somewhere, making sure she does her job.

"I'm sorry," I say, warming up to my sarcasm. "I was unaware we had an appointment. Perhaps if you could ring ahead next time, I might be about to fit you into an earlier timeslot."

She gives me an unamused look. "Shut up, you little bastard. I'm just here to warn you." She grins, the masochistic bearer of bad news. "Your father wants me to tell you that you're playing a very dangerous game."

I stare at her, my face expressionless. "He thinks I didn't know that?" I can't help but grin. "Do _you_ know that _you're_ playing a very dangerous game?"

"It's my kind of game."

"Maybe," I shrug, sticking my hands into the pockets of my jeans. "But you weren't born to play it. I've been playing it since the day I was born. I know the rules; I know how it goes down. Do you?"

"This time, I know more than you do." She smirks with an air of smug superiority hanging around her.

"Do you really? Do you know about the hundreds of women he's taken to his bed? They're all dead now," I add in an offhand manner, waiting to see the emotion on her deadpan face. "What about the times he's beaten those women to death _with his own hands_? Or the times he's abused me to the point where I've lost consciousness? Do you know all about Harleen?"

"Quiet," she murmurs, her face a mask of cold fury.

"What about his scar stories? Hmmmmm?" I ask, waiting for an emotional response. "I wonder what one he told you. The ex-wife, the abusive father, the corrupt cops, which one was it? Or did he make up a new one, just for you?" I realise that I'm sneering at her and I'm glad. I hate her and everything she represents. "He doesn't know how he got them, you know. I don't even know, but I do know that I was there, which is more than you were. He'll never trust you, never confide in you. He's a psycho, he makes it all up to gain your soul and now he has you. And it's so easy for him too. He knows your weaknesses and he plays them like a violin. Do you think he loves you? He can't, he's incapable -"

She slaps me across the face, reopening a faint scar on my lip. I back off, holding my bleeding mouth. "You don't," she says in a voice trembling with fury as she raises a finger to point at me. "You _don't_ badmouth Mistah J. You deserved what you got. Every time you deserved it. He takes care of you and how do you repay him?" She regains her composure and begins to speak in a much more measured tone. "You lie, you go to the police, you set him up, you publicly humiliate him by doing _that!_" She gestures wildly to The Mean Mother. "You deserve everything you get. And never forget that you miserable bastard."

"And what about love?" I bite back. "Do you think he loves you? You were a psychologist! How could you be so stupid?"

She ignores me, turning on her heel and marching away. I watch her go with a mix of hatred and self-loathing. Perhaps, if I had handled that better, I may have found an ally. But, maybe not. She does seem totally smitten with Dad and my opinion isn't going to shake that, no matter how much it rings of truth.

I head for home, taking shortcuts when I can. Normally, I wouldn't take shortcuts when Emilia's with me, but her absence allows me to be a bit more daring when it comes to finding a route home. This part of Old Gotham's practically littered with drag bars, which means that as I traverse the back streets, I can hear the dozens of parties that are only just beginning and, occasionally, I run across a couple getting to know each other out the back of a bar. It's things like this that keeps me from taking Emilia through the shortcuts. But, like the Narrows, it's home to me. I'm safe here.

There is a muffled scream ahead of me. I swallow nervously, but move at a decidedly faster pace towards the scream's source. I make it to the back alley behind another bar before I find them. Two people are struggling; one a drag queen, the other a man whom I can't place until he looks up at me.

It's Dad. Not in his Joker outfit, but in street clothes. Even at this distance, I can still see the two horrific scars that mark his face in perfect clarity; they're anything but unnoticeable so it makes me wonder why no one's figured out that the devil's been staking their streets in normal clothes. But, his face is greasepaint free and his hair is his natural brown so, perhaps, it may have been possible for him to wander about unnoticed, but only at night. The scars are too prominent on his face.

He smiles at me as he struggles with the queen in his grip, winking as he shows me the knife blade glinting in his hand. I gasp and wish desperately that I could will myself to rush forwards and save her but I know it's useless. Fear roots me to the spot, forcing me to watch Dad in horror.

He plunges the blade into her stomach and she screams, loud and grating. I fling my hands to my head, willing the noise to disappear, but it only intensifies as Dad draws the blade up towards her neck. The dress falls apart, blood running out of her body like water escaping a flooded river. But still she continues to scream and fight, clawing at Dad's arms and hands, kicking and wriggling in a vain attempt to get free. He laughs, chuckling morbidly as her attempts to escape get weaker. I could see the very second that her life left her; she hung limp and pale in his arms, the blood oozing through her clothes and her internal organs poking through the gash. I could literally see her heart stop beating.

I back away from the chaos in front of me, but I cannot escape, I cannot look away. I get the sense that I have to watch this, as disgusting and terrible as it is. I watch Dad drop her and I can hear the sickly, wet slap as some of her organs fall out of the huge gash that's sliced her open and onto the concrete. He crouches over her face, preparing to use his knife and, even at this distance, I can see him slice open her face in a morbid parody of his own scars. It makes me feel sick.

I watch in horror as he stalks towards me, a sadistic smile playing on his lips. "Enjoy the _show_?" He asks, stopping a few feet from where I'm standing. I can see him clearly now and he's literally covered in her blood, to the extent where it's impossible to hide. He smirks as I take it all in. "Never forge_t_ Andrew," he says in his slow, confident, terrifying manner. "You are playing a _dangerous_ game. Acceptthe consequences." I say nothing. He takes another step towards me and grabs a handful of my shirt, pulling me towards him. "I play… to _win_," he purrs in my face, smiling cruelly when I tremble.

"Let go of me, Dad," I manage to mutter, sounding slightly more confident than I felt and looked. I push away from him, straightening my shirt and readjusting my backpack. "Just leave me alone; fuck off."

"N_ooo_…" He mutters, drawing out the word. "I used to think you were smar_t_. This isn't just a game. And _neither _of us can jus_t leave_ the other. We're _linked_. _Forever_." He smirks at my furious expression. "Get used to it_,_" He spits, then turns and strolls away. He's in no hurry; we both know he's not going to be caught tonight.

I head towards her dead body for some reason I can't quite grasp. I know she's dead and there's nothing I can do. I saw her heart stop beating for crying out loud. But still, I can't stop myself from creeping forwards. I guess to prove it to myself. Some part of me has to know, has to make sure. Deep down, I know I have to see for myself.

The corpse is lying where it fell; positioned like a ragdoll dropped in its back, its limbs flung out around the body. The long gash that Dad cut stretches from the bellybutton to the collarbones and I can see the internal organs lying there through the bloody opening. Some are protruding out of the gash and some have fallen onto the concrete, leaving a bloody mess. I fight my gag reflex as I retreat back to the main street but the smell follows me and I close my eyes and I can see the blood and the guts just lying there, staining the concrete. I bend over and retch into the gutter.

He says it's a game. It's all a game to him. Was it a warning? Was the murder of that drag queen was a sign for me to watch myself? A game, he said it was all a game. Standing up, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Perhaps it was all a game to him, and perhaps he's right, but for me, this is deadly. It's like a deadly game of cat and mouse. Kill or be killed. A fight to the death. And, if this murder was only the first of many to come, perhaps Harley's warning message was right. Perhaps this is just a dangerous game and I'm going to have to learn the rules quickly if I'm going to win this.


	9. Treaty

**Treaty**

Somehow, I knew Batman would get my signal. Admittedly it did take most of the night for him to show, but I knew I could capture his attention. I knew he'd come.

I'm on the rooftop where Dad took me that night when they sent him back to Arkham. I figured this would be the most obvious place, what with what happened last time and the fact that this building is right in front of Arkham's front gates. In the building below my feet there is an abandoned apartment with a large window facing the walls of Arkham Asylum. It's been abandoned for as long as I can remember. It was the window that captured my attention when I started thinking of how I could contact Batman.

It's been five days since Dad killed that queen in front of me. There's been a killing every night since; each one dead outside a bar with a Glasgow smile cut into their faces. It got to Tuesday before I made the definitive decision to play his game. I've got no choice. Not anymore.

Tuesday night I stole a spotlight from a hardware store near Aparo Park in Old Gotham. I used an old permanent marker I had in the apartment to draw a bat logo on the globe and then I broke into the abandoned apartment. I practiced shining the light through the window, aiming the spotlight so the beam hit the dead centre of the heavy metal gates. Wednesday was spent thinking of what I would tell Batman. I'd brushed him off two times already and I was pretty sure that he knew I was the Joker's son. Whatever I came up with, it had to be damn good for him to even consider listening to me.

And tonight. Tonight was the night. I got here early, just as the sun was setting. I knew that from now on it would all be a waiting game. I snuck back into the abandoned apartment and plugged the spotlight in before climbing back up to the roof and sitting on the edge, watching the walls of Arkham Asylum and my fake Bat signal.

I watched the moon climb higher and higher amongst the dark storm clouds as the night wore on. My signal seemed dim in comparison with the brightness of the numerous streetlights but I knew it had been seen. I'd seen people stop and look. Three patrol cars have passed the gates, driving slower as they neared the light. It's been seen.

The time passes slowly. My watch was stolen a couple of weeks ago and I haven't got round to getting a new one so I have no idea what the time is. It just feels like a heck of a long time. I'm yawning a lot though, so it must be early in the morning. I slide back from the edge just a bit; a precaution in case I fall asleep and go over the edge. That would not be a pretty landing.

"What do you want?"

I freeze in mid-yawn. I close my mouth and lower my hand before I turn around and get to my feet. Batman glares at me, apparently unamused.

"Gimmie a sec," I mutter as I head for the door to the building. "I'm just gonna turn it off." He moves to block my exit. Now it is my turn to glare, unamused. "I spent all night trying to get in contact with you. I'm not about to run off. I just want to turn off that night in case it gets any more attention. The police are after your Bat-ass, after all." I push past him and run for the apartment where I turn off the light and pack it up to take it with me as I head back up to the roof.

He's standing motionless as I emerge onto the dark rooftop. As he hears my footsteps he snaps his head around and, with a small jerk of his head, orders me to move faster. I leave the spotlight near the door and comply with his order, running across the roof to a spot just in front of where he's standing. He turns his head to look me directly in the eye. I wilt, casting my eyes down. He's really not impressed and I am so afraid of him right now.

"What do you want?" He growls for the second time.

My heart skips a beat before I remember that he's not Dad, before I remember that he's not going to strike me or try to cut me. It makes me stand a little taller. "I need your help."

He gives away next to nothing of his emotions but even I can tell that he's a little taken aback at what I've just said. He covers in a split second and the expression is lost behind his blank face. "Why?"

I swallow, my Adam's apple feeling like a rock lodged in my windpipe, making it impossible to draw a deep breath. "The Joker's going to kill me," I mumble. "Him and Quinn. They're after me. He hates me, he wants me dead."

"I'm not a bodyguard," he growls and turns to leave.

"Wait!" The strangled cry catches in my throat and I forget everything I was planning on saying. He stops walking but doesn't look at me. "I'll tell you everything. Everything you want to know," I plead. He looks at me over his shoulder. I hug myself against the cold breeze to keep myself from trembling. "Just... _please_ help me."

Suddenly there is a crack of thunder and the heavens open, the rain coming down in buckets. I watch him through the mist of rain, his cape billowing slightly in the small breeze. "What do I want to know?"

I'm panting as I stare at him, trying desperately to think of the right answer. We're writing up verbal contracts and we both know it. "Everything. Anything. Ask me a question and if I know it, the answer's yours. I'll sell him out if only you'll just help me."

He takes a few steps towards me and I look up to meet his gaze. "And what do you want from me?"

"I just want you to catch him." He gives me a strange look. I wipe a strand of wet hair out of my eyes before I continue. "I just want you to catch him and Quinn before they get me. You've gotta get Quinn too. She's been helping him escape for ages, I'm sure of it. That time, before Quinzel became Quinn, when he brought me here and let you catch him, you must've seen it, he just stopped fighting, he just wanted to know you were still out there, it was all just so he could get back into Arkham. It's all part of his plan."

"I know all that." His tone makes me hang my head. "You're wasting my time."

My head snaps up. "I can give you one good reason to stay and help me." He says nothing. I take a deep breath and sigh. "The Joker is my father." It feels strangely satisfying to say those words aloud. And, for the briefest of moments, I can see a small smirk on Batman's lips that vanishes the instant it appears. With my doubts confirmed, I hang my head, defeated, and wait for him to say something.

"I know."

"You just needed me to confirm it."

"Yes."

My frustration overflows. "You bastard," I mutter. "You bastard!" I say again, yelling as I bring my head up with a snap. My fist dives into my pocket, enclosing the small handle of the switchblade that I stole from Dad's room all those weeks ago. "You played me, you bastard!" I take a few angry steps towards him, yanking my fist from my pocket and drawing the blade. I try to thrust the small blade between the plates of his suit and he grabs my wrist, twisting it painfully until I have to drop the knife. Numbly I draw my fist back and punch his stomach, willing my fists to make contact with soft flesh instead of the hard, unyielding plates. He lets me go until I can't take the stinging pain of my knuckles any longer. A gloved hand clamps down on my fist as I pull it back to take one final swing. I stop, panting and soaked to the skin, to glare up him. He drops my hand and I let it fall to my side. Something unspoken passes between us; I don't think I could explain it if I tried. I exhale slowly, ignoring the water dripping into my eyes. I feel defeated. Beaten. Dad's won. Batman's won. And what hope did I ever have in the first place? "What..." I sigh. "What do you want to know?"

"What is his plan?"

"I don't really know." I hesitate, rubbing my nose with the back of my hand. "They've all been drag queens. And... He hates that I... do a drag act. I, I think he's going to try to get them all, one by one, 'til it's just me. And then I think he's going to kill me."

He nods once, a short, sharp movement. "I'll need names, locations."

"I can write you a list."

"Bring it here tomorrow night." He turns to leave and, this time, I make no effort to stop him. He crosses the roof before he turns to look at me again. "If you cross me or waste my time, you will not like what will happen to you."

I shake my head, clutching my arms close to my chest. "I won't. I wouldn't."

He looks at me for a moment longer before he leaps off the roof. I run across to where he leapt from in time to see him get on that bike of his and ride away. I hope he gets back to wherever he comes from without the police catching him. They say they haven't seen him in years. I hope it stays that way, if only for a little while longer. I remain motionless for a while, letting the rain run down my face and back. When I start to shiver, I walk over to where I left the spotlight and pick it up, then head down the fire escape stairs.

The rain eases a bit as I make the short walk back to the apartment, but the wind has started to pick up and, as I'm completely drenched, I start to tremble violently as the biting wind seems to make the temperature drop quickly. Despite my exhaustion, I run the remaining distance in a desperate attempt to escape the cold.

Inside the apartment feels no warmer than outside. But there is a reason for that.

I stand frozen as I stare at the gaping hole in the glass of my window as the rain shoots in and the ratty old curtains whirl wildly in the breeze. The brick that made the hole is lying about a foot away from my bed, partially wrapped in an old piece of newspaper tied to it with brown string. Glass is all over the floor.

Treading gingerly across the floor, I pick up the brick and loosen the string, leaving the brick on the floor and taking the newspaper. Pulling the blanket off my bed, I take it and the newspaper to the living room where it is slightly warmer. Wrapping the blanket around myself, I sit on the sofa and smooth out the newspaper. I always knew it was from Dad; I'm not stupid. The newspaper opens to the obituary page on which Dad has scrawled death threats and 'jokes', literally covering the paper in his writing except for a brief notice remembering the loss of six drag queens. Scowling, I toss the paper away and wrap myself up tighter in the blanket, shivering against the cold. The night passes slowly before I manage to drift to sleep.


	10. A Friend and A Memory

**A Friend and A Memory**

I don't bother getting up in time to head for school. What's the point? Occasionally skipping a day or two of school isn't going to set anyone looking for me. Everyone does it on a regular basis anyway. Plus; I'm a kid from the Narrows. You go with stereotypes and it's a wonder I ever show up.

Sleeping in this morning was a guilty pleasure I'm glad I indulged in. I think I really needed it. Awake, I'm stressed and edgy, constantly jumping at shadows. But, asleep and in those few moments in the morning before you realise who you are and what's happening... It's nice.

The broken window and brick didn't seem as terrifying in the morning. The way I figure it, I've lived through his temper and abuse for seventeen years without any lasting physical damage. Sure, there's mental scarring and that does take a while to heal but it _can_ heal, y'know? I can get through this. I've just gotta keep smart. And going to Batman was a smart move. He'll do... something.

It's late-afternoon when I hear a gentle rapping at the door. I'm in my bedroom, picking the glass up off the floor and organising the chaos that the wind turned my room into. I taped a large piece of cardboard to my window earlier, so the problem of a broken window wasn't really a problem anymore. I head to the living room and cautiously open the door.

"You weren't at school today."

I open the door a little wider and stare at Emilia. "Rough night," I reply automatically, not registering what I've just said.

She gives me a terse smile. "Obviously." She looks over her shoulder before peering into the apartment. "Can I...?" She gestures inside.

"Oh yeah," I mutter, remembering myself as I move aside and allow her inside. Before I close the door, I can't help but stick my head outside and look up and down the hallway. Deserted.

Emilia's perched on the sofa, looking timid and frightened. "Hey Em," I say as I approach her. "What are you doing here? We agreed that you wouldn't come here." She looks up at me with wide, terrified eyes. I take a few steps back, catching myself as I think a thought I've dreaded would one day come true. _I'm acting like Dad_. And I was. I put on the swagger, the voice I... did I? Yes, I'm sure I even liked my lips. Just like him.

"A-andrew?" She mumbles. "Are you ok?"

"I'm sorry Em," I say, sitting heavily on the floor. "I don't know what came over me." I look up at her. I can feel the bags under my eyes, I know my clothes look (and smell) slept in and my hair is tousled and dirty. I feel like him.

She starts to cry. It seems so sudden and random and I don't understand why, but I'm up on the sofa next to her in a second. She wraps her arms around my waist and sobs into my shoulder. I don't know where to put my arms so I give her a kind of awkward hug and rub her back. What am I supposed to do? I've never been comforted when I cried.

"It's all a mess," she sobs, clutching at my back. Her nails are digging into my skin but it's a tolerable pain. "Did-did you see?"

"See what hon?" I murmur, staring blankly ahead of me.

Leaning her head against her shoulder, I can feel her breath on my neck as she sighs. "What your Dad did. Did you see?"

"The drag queens," I state. I start to rub her back in a circular motion, trying to soothe her. "I saw them. He killed the first one in front of me."

She shakes her head. "N-no. Not just that. Last night. Did-did you see?"

"No."

A strangled cry escapes her lips so I pull her closer. It takes her a full five minutes to calm down enough to talk again. "He-he got three. Three. From The Mean Mother. Riley and Steve and Richard. They're gone, Andrew. He killed him. How could he just...?" And she collapses into hysterical tears again, gripping to me for dear life.

I feel numb. I'd seen them, those three, only on Saturday night. They were so young, so happy and full of life. It didn't seem right that they could just die like that. And Dad would have gathered that I knew them; we worked at the same bar after all. I shiver and immediately hope that Emilia didn't notice. I don't wanna look weak or scared. Not now. Not of Dad.

"Is that it hon?" I ask as I run a finger through her hair. "Was it just... that?"

"I wanted to make sure that-that," she sniffs loudly and lets out a trembling sigh. "I didn't want you to be dead. I don't know what I would have done."

I smile. "What're you talking about darl? You'd get on fine without me dragging you to gay bars all over Gotham." I try to laugh to make her feel better but it sounds hollow, empty. She shakes her head and burries it into my chest. I stop trying to laugh and soothe her. There is something seriously wrong here. "What's wrong Emilia? What's happened?"

She looks up at me, tears glistening on her cheeks and in her eyes. "It's all such a mess." I can see her lower lip tremble. "I," she starts before the tears return and she has to stop again. I wait for her in silence. "I, I was..." she draws in a terrible rattling breath and hugs me."I was raped Andrew."

"What?" She nods miserably, tears running in streams down her face. "When? Have you told anyone?"

She shakes her head. "Two months ago. And it's worse than just that."

I stare at her in disbelief. "You're..." I pause, watching her face carefully. "Pregnant?" I whisper. She nods fearfully. "You haven't told...?" Pursing her lips, she shakes her head. "Hon, you've got to tell your parents. They'd be more help than me; I don't know anything about those procedures or anything."

"I can't." She sits up, grabbing twp fistfuls of my shirt. "They'd be so angry; they'd _hate_ me."

"Hon, it's not your fault."

Letting go of me and wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, she nods a little. "I know."

I glance to the clock on the wall and, in a split second, the reality of the situation crashes down on me. "Oh _shit_!" Emilia gives me a strange look. "I have to go." I get an even stranger look in return. "Alright," I begin, "this is going to sound crazy, but I went to Batman for help. I, I sold Dad out for protection. I need to go meet Batman now so I can give him the information." I pause, swallowing as I think my options through. "You've gotta come with me." She goes to protest but I cut her off. "You can't be here alone, just in case Dad decides to turn up and teach me a lesson; you'd only get hurt. And I'm walking you home tonight. I just have to meet Batman now or he'll think I was lying and he'll ignore me."

I help her get up and grab my list before I escort her out of the apartment. Despite my nerves and bad feelings, we make it to the rooftop without incident. But, try as I might, I cannot convince Emilia to sit near the stairs as I waited for Batman. She clings to me as we stand in the centre of the roof, my old jacket wrapped around the both of us. I know it sounds cruel to try and get her away from me, especially after what she had just told me, but I don't think I can risk Batman thinking that I'm lying. He's the only person in Gotham who can help me now.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Batman standing on the other side of the roof, staring at us. Taking off the jacket, I wrap it tightly around Emilia. "Please, I won't be a moment. I'll talk to him and then I'll be right back. I promise." She nods and I take off, sprinting across the roof to where I last saw Batman.

But he's not there anymore. I make it to the edge and I can see him striding away. "Batman," I call out. "_Batman!_" He stops and turns, looking up at me. "Please, I have the information." He says nothing as he walks back and pulls a grapple gun, or something to that effect, off his belt and climbs up the side of the building. As he reaches the top, he stands to his full height, staring down at me with cold eyes. "She turned up unexpectedly," I try to explain. "I couldn't leave her at home in case of Dad and I couldn't send her wandering the streets by herself. I'm sorry, I was just trying -"

"Do you have the information?"

I pull the sheet of paper from my pocket and pass it to him with trembling fingers. "It's all I could think of. I tried, I really did. I know it's not much and, after what he did last night it may not be helpful but I did my best." I'm grovelling. I can hear it in my voice.

"I'll find you if I need anything else."

"But how, you don't..." He stares at me as it all clicks into place. "Oh. Of course you know." I glance over my shoulder to where Emilia was waiting. "Just... so you know... Da- the Joker's not there anymore. He hasn't been there for a while."

He nods and I take it as my cue to leave, running back across the roof to Emilia. I grab her hand as I reach her, trying to smile reassuringly but knowing that I was failing. "Are you alright?"

"I'm ok."

I try to smile again. "Let's get you home then, ok?"

I escort her off the roof and start the long walk back to her home. I glance over my shoulder often but there's no one there. Batman's long gone and I know that the bars that Dad will hit are on the other side of the city. Emilia doesn't notice my nervousness and, by the time we've reached her street, she's calmed down enough to promise me that she'll tell her parents. I don't believe her but, it's a start. I've got to get her to do something before it's too late. And her parents love her. They'll understand, they'll want to help. At least she has options, even if she can't see them right now.

I leave her once she's safely in her apartment building; her parents don't need to see me. It'd be better off it I just disappeared. I manage to make it to the other end of the street before I hear a piercing scream. My thoughts instantly return to Emilia and my fear that Dad will get her. But it didn't come from that end of the street.

Following the source of the scream takes me away from the waterfront and into the business district. Pretty soon, I am surrounded by skyscrapers on all sides and I don't know where I am exactly. I'm tempted to just leave and try to find my way back but then it happens again. I round the corner and find it. Well, him.

A cop. Rolling around on the ground, clearly in agony. Screaming, moaning, fighting off invisible attackers. It's like what happened in the Narrows, with the Scarecrow and his toxin. But... I shiver violently. I can't help this man. I turn my back on him and start to walk away. I'm no hero. The steps turn into running strides and I'm running blindly through Gotham, desperate to get away from him, the memory of that night and the months and years that followed. It all went downhill from there.

An uneven slab of concrete trips me and I go down, grazing my hands and cheek. I get up and keep walking, all the while staring at the bloody skin of my hands. I let the tears come as I wander the streets alone.


	11. Find Me, Catch Me, Kill Me

**Find Me, Catch Me, Kill Me**

I stop at a coffee house just around the corner from The Mean Mother. It's cold and I need the caffeine. I didn't sleep much and I'm having trouble staying awake. Don't wanna be yawning all night.

"They've found five bodies. All piled on top of each other behind this one bar."

I pause as I'm about to walk out the door. That had to be about Dad.

"The Joker?"

"Yeah. And there was another seven scattered around the other bars round here. You know the ones I mean. I tell ya," I move away from the door and watch the speaker out of the corner of my eye. "Whoever the Joker's after, he'd better be careful. Those bodies; they're really messed up. It's one hell of a hate crime, even for Gotham."

I take a sip out of my cup and perch on a stool. They're two cops, probably off-duty. They haven't noticed me yet so I figure I'll hang around until they start talking about something else. It can't hurt to find out a bit of what's been going on. It'd be nice to have a bit of an advantage for once.

"You know he's after someone? Like definitely?"

The first speaker shrugs. "Well, _I_ think he is. Why else would he hit those drag bars?"

"He could be homophobic."

"Nah, I don't think so."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Just a feeling I get. The Joker doesn't seem confined to petty things like that. He's going after someone."

I've had enough. I stand up casually and make my way outside, leaving my barely touched coffee sitting on the window sill. The old familiar feeling of being watched creeps over me, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and sending a shiver down my spine. I know he's not here but... I can't help but glance around before walking away.

The short walk seems to talk forever. And the feeling of being watched grows as I near the bar. I guess its cause it's abnormally quiet. I mean, it's a Saturday night and there's no one here. It's like a ghost town round here now.

"Andy?"

The Mean Mother is dark and quiet. Joe's voice echoes around the empty room.

"What's going on Joe?" I ask as I approach the deserted bar. "Where is everyone?"

He shrugs. "No one's coming out here anymore Andy. It's too dangerous, what with everything that's been happening and all..."

"No one comes at all?"

"Well, people drink. The regular guys, you know. We all get together here and drink but no one does anything more, you know? Just too dangerous."

"You're scared."

"Bloody hell Andy! Wouldn't you be?" He snaps, slamming his fist down on the countertop. "There's no fucking business here anymore. No one's got the balls to do anything now and if they do, the fucking Joker will cut the fucking things offa him free of charge anyway." Joe raises a trembling hand to wipe at the sweat on his brow. "It's over. Everything's over. Everyone's either dead or they've got the brains to stay away."

I feel a pang of guilt at his words. It's my fault they're being attacked. "But, what about the other -"

"There are no others," he cuts me off. "No one is stupid enough to perform. Not with what's been happening."

"But surely they all couldn't have given it up. Helena wouldn't have given up."

Joe shakes his head. "I don't know where Helena is. She said she'd be back tonight and she isn't." There's a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach. "I keep hoping that she's playing it smart and choosing to stay at home but that's not her. If she could be, she'd be here." He looks me directly in the eye. "We both know that. The fact that she's not here means that something has happened to her. Go home Andrew. Before something happens to you too."

It can't happen like this. "But," I begin before he cuts me off.

"No 'buts'. Go home. You're not supposed to be here."

"Joe. You can't do this." I plant my hands on the countertop. "This is my home, my life. I can't give it up."

"There's no choice in it anymore, Andrew. No one wanted to give it up, but none of us wanted to die like that." He grabs my wrist in a firm but affectionate grip. "Don't kill yourself for something that's not worth it. Hell Andy, you're smart. Real smart. You could make your life mean something. Don't waste it chasing some stupid idea of home in a bunch of dingy bars."

I snatch my hand away. "You don't get it Joe. The people here, they're the closest thing I've ever had to a family and most of the time they're the only people I've ever given a damn about. I can't give it up cause it's the only thing I have."

"Well then that's a shame Andy. And I'm sorry for you, I really am. But I'm not going to let you kill yourself."

I slump on a bar stool, resting my head on my hands. "Fine. But I want one more. One last show."

He shakes his head. "You've gotta be fucking joking. What did I just tell you?"

"I know and I heard you Joe, it's just that... I just want one more. If I'm giving up, I don't want to be running away with my tail between my legs, y'know? I wanna stick it to him. One resolute fuck you before I disappear." He raises an eyebrow. I bite my lower lip and rub my neck. "Please Joe. This'd be the only safe place to do it."

"And what makes you think that he'd know about you? Hmmmm?" He drums his fingers on the countertop as I search for a feasible explanation.

I slam my hand down as the thought hits me. "You said no one else is doing it anymore. I'd be the only one. He couldn't not hear about it. We'd spread the word. Let everyone know that we're going to fight back against the prejudice." Joe shakes his head. "We _have_ to," I insist. "We fight back against everyone else. We fight for each other, we fight for ourselves. We can't let him win." There's a long silence before Joe speaks again.

"He'll go after you."

I nod. "I know."

Joe rubs his eyes. "This time next week then. We'll start spreading the word. See if we can't fill this place." He reaches across the counter and pats my shoulder. "Go home though. Get some sleep and figure out what you're going to do."

"Thanks Joe," I grin. He nods and I take it as my cue to leave.

* * *

The night outside is lifeless. There's no one in the streets, no cars on the roads and the only sound comes from the dull hum of the flickering neon lights. This is weird. I've half a mind to go back inside and hide out in there for a while but I can't bring myself to do that. The guilt would eat me alive.

I wrap my jacket tightly around myself and begin to walk home. I know I'm being watched now. I just know it. "Come on Dad, get it over with," I mutter to the empty street. I take a shortcut down an alley instead of going the long way around. Instead of going the safe way. And there he is, standing there. Grinning.

"I knew you'd come this way."

"I knew you'd be here."

"Ah, Andrew," Dad sighs, shaking his head slightly. "It's _such_ a shame it'll all have to end like _this_." I watch him slide his gun from his coat pocket. My heart catches in my throat as I pull his knife from my pocket. I want to say something but I can't speak.

He's still smiling as I run at him, as I bring the knife forward and try to thrust it into his chest. Before I can make contact, he's grabbed my wrist in an impossibly tight grip that feels like he's crushing my bones. I drop the knife as I cry out in pain, pushing against him with my other hand. He drops the gun to grab my other wrist and kicks me in the groin. He lets go of my wrists and I drop to the ground in agony.

One of my hands brushes against the handle of the knife and I grab it, slashing it against Dad's leg. I can see drops of blood on the blade before his shoe collides with my face and bright bursts of pain explode across my eyes. All I can hear is him laughing at me.

I bring the knife up blindly, slashing at where I think he's standing. Suddenly he's got my wrists, and I can feel his presence above me, standing over me, leaning close to my ear.

"Andrew," he breathes. "Give up."

"I can't," I mutter through gritted teeth. "It's all I've got. You've taken everything else."

He chuckles and stamps his foot on the ground. I know that there's now a knife protruding from his shoe and I try to roll away from it, but I can't move far enough. The tip of the blade cuts my cheek as I raise my knee as hard and fast as I can. He immediately lets go of my wrists and I know I kicked him where I wanted to.

I scramble away from him on all fours, trying to clear my vision before he comes back. Crouched on the concrete, I can't help but wonder why he hasn't come after me. I stand up when I can see again and turn to see Batman there, fighting with Dad. It's violent; fast and furious fighting. And despite the fact that I know I can turn around and walk away right now, I find myself running towards them, knife up, ready to attack my father.

Batman sees me coming before Dad does and attempts to stop me from reaching him. It almost works, but Dad sees me now and makes a beeline around Batman to where I am. He manages to get in a punch that opens my lip before I cut his arm and Batman tackles him.

I wipe my lip with the back of my hand, not really worried about the blood on my face or hand. My eyes catch sight of Dad's gun on the ground and, while they're both preoccupied, I reach down and grasp it tightly. Picking it up, I point it towards Dad. My hands are shaking. I want to hurt him, to make him suffer for everything he's done to me. I want him to hurt just enough, so they can catch him and he can go back to Arkham or Blackgate Prison, whatever one'll take him. But he won't stay there. They can't keep him there. He's too smart, too unpredictable. There's only one way...

The gun ricochets in my hands and I see Dad stop dead.

Batman stops too; he's holding Dad by the collar of his shirt. Dad's smiling at him; I can see it from here. Then he turns his head and looks at me and I can see the blood on his shirt.

It's spreading.

"It took you _long_ enough." Dad winks at me and I drop the gun in disgust.

Somewhere in the distance I can hear a voice and it sounds like Quinzel and it's screaming but I can't hear it properly; I can't take it in. All I can hear is four words, ringing loud and clear, over and over again in my head.

_You've killed your father._


	12. Ghosts

**Ghosts**

My brain has stopped working.

I stand silently as Batman lowers my father to the ground. The stain on his shirt is still spreading across his chest.

I've killed him. I didn't mean to kill him. It was an accident. The gun shouldn't have gone off. I didn't want to pull the trigger. It was an involuntary tremor, an accidental jerk that moved it. Is that still murder? Did _I_ still kill him?

Batman looks up at me. From this distance, I can't tell if he's scowling or just staring. And it terrifies me. I don't want him to hate me or think that I did it on purpose. I don't want him to think I'm just like Dad. I'm his son but I'm not him.

I turn and walk away. I suppose I look calm, but inside my heart is racing. In my mind I can hear Dad's laughter. It echoes through my head, matching my footsteps. Quinzel's scream mixes with it and it all becomes one chaotic noise ringing through my head, making me want to sit down in the gutter, ripping my hair out and crying. I can't stand it.

A hand on my shoulder stops me. I'm round the corner and I can't see Dad's body anymore, which is a relief. Batman looks down at me with blank eyes. I'm starting to freak out a little. What if he decides that I did it on purpose? I feel faint at the thought of going to jail for the murder of my father. It would all come out then. Everyone would know that the Joker was my father and everyone would know that I killed him. I'd never be allowed out. I'd die in there.

I don't know why I did it, but at that moment I threw my arms around Batman and cried. Emilia, Helena, Joe, that prostitute Dad killed all those months ago... All the faces and names come swimming back to me and the tears run like floodwaters. I've made such a mess of things. They'd hate me if they knew the truth; if they knew what I did to them by doing nothing.

Batman rests a semi-comforting hand on my back, but it feels wrong. I have to get away; I have to do something about it. I pull myself away and he does nothing. I didn't expect him to anything anyway. "I'm... I'm sorry," I mutter, turning on my heel and marching away. Something's passed between us, a kind of silent understanding. He knows I didn't mean to do it. And that's all that matters to me at the moment.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I can't help but wonder what happened to Quinzel. I know I heard her scream and I know that Dad would have brought her with him. And if she's around here somewhere, I get the feeling that she would have no problem settling the score with me. Actually, I think she'd enjoy it.

People have heard the gunshot by now and a couple are trickling out onto the street. No one pays attention to me, the skinny boy with the blood on his face and tears in his eyes. They all head towards that alley, going to see the spectacle. It makes me sick. Lives have been ruined here tonight and no one cares. They want to watch the chaos; they're drawn to it, like a moth to a flame. They want to see it, to shake their heads and frown and mutter behind their hands while they thank God that it hasn't happened to them. It's at times like this that, well... I guess I can kind of see what Dad's been saying all this time.

A hand emerges out of the darkness, grabbing at my shirt, pulling me in. I fight back in terror, pushing my unseen attacker away, desperately trying to escape. Don't they understand that I can't stay here?

"Andy, calm down. It's me. It's Joe." His face materialises out of the shadows, smiling warily. "What happened? Was it the Joker?" I can't talk. I just can't speak. The words won't come. Doesn't he understand that? "Andy," he insists, pulling me closer. "Andy, you're hurt. Let me help you." I let loose a strangled cry and push away from him once more. He lets go of me and I run blindly into the darkness. I must have scared him, worried him at the very least, but he doesn't understand that I can't be here. I have to get away.

And somewhere in the darkness, I think I can here maniacal laughter. Dad's laughter. But I know it's not real. It can't be. It's just me. It's just me going a little mad.

* * *

The water is cold. It runs over my skin, mixing with the tears and sweat, flowing down my back as I crouch in the shower, trying to block out the sights and sounds of that alley.

I can still hear his voice. It plays over and over in my head. He taunts me, mocks me, tells me to man up and deal with it. He blames Batman. He's telling me to avenge him. I cover my ears with my hands. I don't want to hear it anymore. He's not here anymore; I shouldn't be hearing his voice.

My strangled sobs echo in the bathroom. They set me on edge just a little bit. I'm starting to feel like everyone's out to get me; Batman, Quinzel, the police, even Joe. It feels like they know all the crap things I've done and they wanna make me pay for it. It's crazy; I know it is, but maybe... Maybe I am actually going a little mad.

There's a crash just beyond the bathroom door. My head snaps up, almost expecting Quinzel to come barging in here with a gun pointing at my head. I can see it all happening; the door flying open, her angry eyes, shrill voices, gunshots that will rip the early morning air apart and blood, my blood, escaping the shattered remains of my head and swirling down the drain with the water. I tilt my head back, getting water in my eyes, and the visions are gone.

But Quinzel won't come here.

She'll know about my plans. Dad would have already known. She would have been with him so she too would know about my performance. And she'll get me there. She'll sit at the bar, taking it all in cause it's not like she'll be in any hurry. She'll let me get through a handful of songs and then, while the audience is too busy boozing or getting high, she'll take out a gun and point it at me. I'll see her. I'll watch her all night. And I'll keep eye contact with her as I perform; I'll perform to her as she aims the barrel of the gun between my eyes. I'll wink at her as she squeezes the trigger, but I'll never break character. She'd win if I did.

I can't believe I just imagined my death. I mean, sure I always thought about how I'd die, but I've never actually visualised it in that kind of detail. Dad's screwing around with my mind.

I turn off the water and get out of the shower. I'm wallowing in misery and it doesn't suit me. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I lean on the sink and stare into the mirror. A long, bloody cut; that's the first thing I notice about myself. Next the split lip, followed by the purple bags under my eyes. I look like an absolute mess.

The door sticks a little as I swing it outwards. I start to head to my bedroom but the hairs on the back of my neck are standing on end. I am not the only person in here. Turning around, I catch sight of blackness behind the door to Dad's room. It's slightly ajar. And I know for a fact that it was tightly closed when I got home.

My heart is seized by an unidentifiable emotion; it squeezes it in a vice-like grip that physically hurts. Knowing that _someone_ is here is enough to set me on edge. It never used to be like this. I never used to jump at every shadow. I may be stronger than six months ago, I may know more about the state of things, but it's made me more scared than I used to be. Now I know exactly what it is I should be afraid of.

I approach the door as silently as I can, reaching out with a trembling hand to touch the faded paintwork. An ominous feeling sinks upon me as I gently push the door open. It doesn't resist, swinging open to reveal the room I used to be so terrified of.

Batman doesn't look up at me as I enter. Somehow, I sort of knew it would be him. I suppose the crash was the breaking of glass; the glass on the floor and not in the window sort of points to that conclusion. "I don't know what you're doing here," I mutter as confidently as a scared teenager in a towel can. "Dad's dead. There's nothing left for you here." He swings his head round to look at me. I gulp, taking a small step back. "Take his stuff if you want; I'm only going to throw it out."

He speaks as I turn to leave. "He's not dead."

I stop dead. Water from my hair runs down my back, making me shiver as the cool air from outside rushes to greet it. "What did you say?" I whisper.

"Surely you didn't think he was."

"So what if I did?" I spin round to face him. "He's dead! He has to be. I held the gun; I saw the blood on his clothes."

He shakes his head slowly. "Then explain how the body disappeared in the short moment he was out of my sight."

It takes me a moment to register what he just said. "Quinzel must have moved him then," I conclude. "She was with him, she wouldn't have let you or the police take him. She was infatuated. She would have done it."

"No."

"No?" I shake my head in disbelief. "It's easier for you to believe he came back from the dead instead of Quinzel moving the body? It's the logical conclusion, God damn it! Why can't you leave it be?"

"Your father was a tall man. He would have been heavy. Quinzel would not have been about to move him to a location where I could not find them in the short time she had. She wouldn't have been strong enough." As much as I hate to admit it, I can see the logic in his argument.

"So, what you're saying," I whisper, eyes downcast. "Is that it's not over? Everything that happened, everything he did, I can't let it go and move on? That he's not done with me?" My breath catches in my throat. "That he could still kill me?"

Batman nods once, curt and definite. My heart sinks. He turns to the window, standing on the sill and jumping out. I can see the black material of his cape billow up behind him. I would go to the window, to watch him leave, but I can't bear to take another step. I don't want to go any further into Dad's room.

I go back to my room, closing the door to Dad's room behind me. I change and lie on my bed, feeling the weight of the world pressing down on my shoulders. I thought it was all over. I thought the nightmare had ended. I think I sort of hate Batman for pulling me out of my fantasy. I mean, yeah, the thought that I had killed my father was traumatising and, to say the least, was probably turning me a little mad. But, I would have recovered. I could have got on with my life, living happily and quietly until he or Harley killed me. I probably wouldn't have even known it was him pulling the trigger. I wouldn't be worried of what he'd do next.

A gunshot in the street. I sit bolt upright and stare at the cardboard covering my window. The first thing I notice is that I'm not scared. I briefly entertain the notion that the gunshot was Dad coming to get me. I'm still not scared. I replay the scenario with Harley Quinn pulling the trigger. No change in emotion. I do it again, with the police coming looking for me, knowing who I am and what I've done. Still nothing. I think about Batman, about what would happen if he turned on me. A ghost of an emotion floats across my mind, to faint to properly identify. It's like I feel nothing at all, like my emotions, my fear, my terror, my anxiety, it all died when I thought Dad did. Like all I can feel now are the faint ghosts of past emotions.


	13. Looking For Closure

**Looking For Closure**

I have no reason to doubt what Batman has told me. As far as I can tell, he has always been honest with me, but I refuse to believe that Dad's still alive until, well... I guess I won't believe it until he's standing in front of me with a knife pressed against my throat.

I guess that's why I woke up this afternoon with the absurd idea that somehow I'd find the answers I was looking for if I went back to that alley where I... Well, I'm not too sure what I actually did any more, so for the lack of a better explanation, where I killed him.

And as I stand here, observing the deserted street, I'm beginning to doubt what he told me. There is an air of death around the place. I don't like being here because I am not one hundred percent sure that I _didn't_ kill him. Sure, I've been told that his body disappeared but what if he wasn't completely dead before I left? What if he had enough life left in him to get up and walk away? He could have made it to Quinzel, he might have died at some secret place with her and that's why no one has found his body. Surely that could explain it all. Cause, coming back to life, however you want to phrase it, well it just sounds stupid. It sounds like magic, really. And that's not a logical conclusion. Besides, I felt the gun go off and I saw his blood. I _smelt_ his blood.

I go to the place where he was lying. I stand in the middle of the alley and I know with the utmost certainty that I am in the right spot. The memory is forever etched in my mind.

As much as I feared and loathed him, kneeling at the spot where I'm sure I know he died is beginning to feel somewhat like a religious experience. I don't feel any great enlightenment or something like that. I guess I feel somewhat... humbled. I guess that would be kind of a hard emotion to understand especially considering where I am. But I do, I really do feel a little humbled being here. I mean, yeah, I know my Dad was a pretty bad guy and God knows that I've been dreaming about his death for almost as long as I can remember but... He's still my father. And, as much as I try to deny it, I am his son. And I can recognise the similarities now. The way I think, the little mannerisms, hell, even the growing lack of emotions. I guess the fact that I _can_ recognise the similarities between the two of us is a good thing. I mean, if I couldn't see it, I'd be like him, wouldn't I?

There's no blood on the concrete. I don't know what that means about the possibility of Dad being alive, but if he'd died here, there would've been blood, right? I mean, he was shot. He would have bled to death. So, if he had died here, there should be blood, I think.

The hairs on the back of my neck are standing on end and I'm starting to get the feeling that I'm being watched. I brush my hand across the concrete where the blood should be. It's dry and rough under my fingertips.

Suddenly I can hear the sharp tap of footsteps. My head snaps up, looking desperately around for the source of the noise but there is no one in sight. But I know I've heard something. And I recognise those footsteps. I used to listen for them specifically. I _know_ they're Dad's footsteps.

I scramble to my feet and rush to the main street, trying to find the owner of the footsteps. I can't admit it to myself but I know that I'm secretly hoping that I'll see Dad. I guess I want to know that I haven't stooped to his level, that I'm not capable of murder.

Before I've noticed what I've done, I'm in the middle of the street, staring down the rows of dirty shopfronts and flickering neon lights. There's no traffic and the few pedestrians on the sidewalk are staring at me like I'm a madman. I ignore them, I have to; I can still hear the footsteps. If he's here, he can't be that far away. I have to find him, to see him. I have to prove it.

I jog down the street, staring at the people there who are doing their best to ignore me. I can't see him anywhere. I'm not even sure if I can hear those footsteps anymore. I'm starting to doubt that I even heard it in the first place but up ahead a flash of purple catches my eye. It's the exact colour of Dad's coat. I think it might be his coat. The wearer turns a corner and I can see the coat flap as he hurries away at high speed.

There's no choice in the matter anymore. I start running as fast as I can towards that corner. I've got to know. People have stopped staring now; I'm just another Gotham City psycho to them. I run faster, almost missing the corner, grabbing onto the brickwork to stop myself, turning, running a few steps down the side street only to see nothing. The street is completely deserted. I look around in desperation. I _know_ whoever it was came down this street. I saw it happen.

A hand on my shoulder catches me off guard. For a split second I forget that Dad isn't here and my mind takes me back to when he would catch me doing something he didn't like. He'd place a hand on my shoulder and I would freeze, knowing it was him, knowing I was about to get punished. And, just like old times, my heart starts to beat rapidly, pounding against my ribcage. My palms begin to get sweaty and my mouth goes dry. He would whisper in my ear, tell me what a disappointment I was, tell me how I'd have to pay for my trespasses. The fear of the past is gone but the symptoms remain. I can't forget it.

"Hey Andy," the owner of the hand whispers. "I saw you running. You ok?"

I swallow, fighting a tight knot in my throat. "Joe..." The hand gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze. I sigh. "I guess so."

He turns me around and pulls me into a bear hug. I hesitate for a moment before putting my arms awkwardly around his back. He doesn't appear to notice my hesitation. "Come on Andy," he mutters over my shoulder. "Let's get you inside and have a look at you." He breaks off the hug and holds me at arm's length, examining my face. "You don't look so great."

"I don't feel so great," I mutter, making Joe laugh. I wish he wouldn't laugh like that but I don't have the heart to ask him to stop.

I let him take me back inside The Mean Mother. He gets me a glass of water as I sit silently at the bar. He may have said something to me, but I honestly can't recall anything. I stare at the countertop in silence. I don't feel the need to say anything.

"Listen Andy," Joe says. I look up, staring blankly ahead of me. "I don't think this whole final show idea is a very good decision." He's knocking absent-mindedly on the countertop with his fist as he talks. "I mean, look at ya. You haven't been the same since you left here last night. I'm calling it off."

"You can't do that," I mutter. "It's fine. I want to do it."

"No!" He slams his fist down on the countertop. "Don't you dare try to pull that guilt trip on me again Andy. Now you listen and you listen good." He leans over and grabs a fistful of my shirt, pulling me close to his face. "I am _not_ having your death in my bar or on my conscience. Got it? If you've gotta death wish, deal with it. But don't go pulling me down with you."

I push him off me and he takes a step back, a shocked look on his face. "I do not have a death wish. Christ, Joe. Don't you get it? The Joker is after me and I'll be damned before I let him get away with it."

"Are you so vain that you think all those people died just so he can hurt you? It's not about you."

"Like hell it isn't." I point to the cut running down the side of my face. "Who do you reckon gave me this? Huh? He coulda killed me; easy. He didn't though. He hasn't tortured anyone else, has he? Cause, at the moment, I'm thinking I'm pretty damn unique in this whole case."

"Yeah? Then why the hell would he want you?" He shakes his head. "You're a kid Andy. You're nothing in this scene. All you've got going for you at the moment is your inflated sense of self worth."

"Well my inflated sense of self worth tells me I'm in danger cause I went to Batman and told him about the Joker's plans and the Joker found out." Not quite the truth but he'll never know.

Joe stares at me in disbelief. "Are you a fucking idiot?" He whispers.

"Yeah, I guess I am."

"So you know you're going to die." His bluntness catches me off guard. I just nod. He shakes his head. "Christ, Andy. And you say you don't have a death wish."

I lean on the countertop. "Joe. Don't cancel the show. Word will spread, people will know. Batman will stop him before it goes too far."

He shakes his head. "You reckon Batman's gonna save you? No one's seen Batman in years."

I shrug as I stand up. "I saw him last night. He saved me then, he'll do it again." Joe raises a skeptical eyebrow. I turn towards the door, shoving my hands in my pockets. "He told me he'd help."


	14. Jump

**Jump**

I shouldn't have argued with Joe. It was stupid; I knew it wouldn't change anything. He was never really going to cancel the show. He can't. It's our last chance. My last chance to catch Dad; his last chance to keep that place from going under. He won't admit it, but Joe is struggling. You can't keep a bar running if no one's coming anymore.

My throat is burning and my eyes are stinging. I stop walking for a moment to compose myself. It all sucks. I lean against a brick wall, watching people going by. They are avoiding looking at me. It that a new phenomenon or has that always been happening? Have I always been a freak and I just didn't notice until Dad left? I turn and punch the wall, grazing my knuckles on the brickwork. I _hate_ this.

My pocket starts to buzz and vibrate. I wipe my brow as I pull my phone from my pocket. It's ringing; Emilia's caller id flashing on the screen. As I go to answer the call it suddenly stops. It didn't ring out; it just stopped. I try to call her back but now her phone's not on. I don't know what to make of this. But something must be wrong. I have to see her, to make sure she's ok.

I start to head towards her apartment. It's on the other side of Gotham but time seems to stand still as I race through the streets; sometimes walking, sometimes running, barely focusing on my surroundings, desperately trying to get to her. I... I know something's happened. Or happening. She wouldn't have tried to call unless it was important. And she hung up before I could talk to her and now her phone's not on; something has to be happening.

I cross the bridge spanning the river that separates Old and New Gotham in a hurry. It's a typical afternoon in New Gotham; traffic is in a deadlock, horns are blasting, obscenities are flying and here and there are part time crooks ripping people off or stealing what they can. The city's broken. I reckon it's beyond repair. The police thought that getting the Mob under control was the most important thing; they forgot about the people. The people who are starving and cold and unemployed. And the ones who just like the chaos. Maybe the police just don't care about them.

From the bridge it doesn't take long to get to Emilia's apartment. It looks normal; no sirens or police cars or screaming. I go to take a step forwards but I can hear something crunch under my foot. I move my foot and stare at the shattered remains of a mobile phone. It's completely ruined but I know it belongs to Emilia. Something tells me to look up and right at the top of the building I can see a small, human shape crouching on the roof. My heart jumps into my throat and I can't breathe. What the hell is going on? I run inside and into a waiting elevator, jabbing the buttons and wishing there was some way to make it move faster.

It's cold up on the roof. A crisp breeze blows in from the river, dropping the temperature several degrees. I shiver in my thin jacket as I approach her. "Emilia?" My voice wavers. "Are you alright hon?" She shakes her head. I desperately want to run to her, to pull her away from the edge, away from the ten story fall. She'll kill herself if she stays there for much longer.

"I want to jump, Andrew."

My hand slides to my pocket as I think of calling the police, Mr and Mrs Cooper, anybody. "You don't mean that Emilia."

She turns her head to look at me. For the briefest of moments I worry that she's going to slip, that somehow she'll side over the edge of the building but she's still here, staring at me with giant eyes. "What are you doing?"

I falter. "You, you rang. And you hung up and then I couldn't reach you." She looks like she's about to cry. "I was worried." I take a step towards her.

"Don't." I stop, watching her get into a crouching position and then stand up. She wobbles and my breath catches in my throat but she regains her balance quickly. "Don't come any closer Andrew. I don't need your help."

"Why did you call me then?"

"I, I changed my mind. I thought I needed you but I don't."

I watch her closely as she hugs herself, reaching into her jacket. "What are you doing Emilia?"

She pulls her hand back out, drawing out a gun. We stand in dead silence as she cocks it and aims it at me. "Don't make me do this Andrew. I don't want to do this."

"Then don't."

The gun is shaking in her hand. "You don't get it. It's not that simple."

"You never told your parents, did you?" Her eyes narrow. I take a small step towards her. She tenses even though I'm still a long way away from her. "Hon, you have to tell them. They can help you. They wouldn't want you to do something like this."

"Go away Andrew." I shake my head. She frowns. "Go away. I don't want you here anymore. Go away."

I hold my hands up and take one more small step forwards. "I'm just trying to help you. I don't want you to do this either. Please let me help you."

"Leave me alone!" She screams. "You don't understand what it's like!"

"No. I guess I don't," I reply evenly. "I can't empathise with what you've been through. I don't understand. I can try to sympathise but you're not letting me."

"Not letting you?" Tears have started to pour down her cheeks. I would give anything to be able to get near her but I know she won't let me. "My parents wouldn't understand and you don't get that. 'Talk to them' you say but you don't know what it's like."

"No, I don't know what it's like to have parents that actually give a damn about my life. I don't know how long it's been since my father and I could sit down together without one of us trying to kill the other." She scowls at me and shakes her head. "I'm _not_ trying to make this about me but you've got to understand that I don't know what real parents are like. I _want_ to help you Emilia, I want it more than anything but all I can offer you is what I know. Tell me: how can I help you?"

"Leave."

"That's not going to help."

She throws the gun over her shoulder. I imagine I can hear a noise as it hits the concrete of the footpath. "Andrew. I was raped. _Violated_. And now I'm pregnant. I'm too scared to get an abortion. I can't tell my parents about any of it because this sort of thing doesn't happen to nice Christian girls. They wouldn't understand. They wouldn't believe me. They would blame you. You don't understand, and how could you, really?"

I try to take a step towards her but she catches my movement and shuffled back an inch. I stop. I don't want to send her over the edge. "Let them blame me then. There's a better way to do this. There's got to be."

"No Andrew. There's no way out."

"Emilia." I take half a dozen steps forwards. She holds up her hand, staring me down.

"No closer." She glances quickly over her shoulder. "I swear to God, I'll jump."

"Emilia, please get down. This isn't the right way to do this."

"Can't you see that I've made up my mind? I could only tell my parents if they'd happily married me off. And I can't do that."

"I'll do it then." She shakes her head, drying her cheeks with her hands. "Emilia, I'll marry you if it gets you down from there safely. Please."

She actually laughs. "You're not proposing. For fucks sake Andrew, don't be stupid. I know you don't want that. You'll ruin your life. I won't do that to you." I want to say something but I don't know what to say. She shakes her head sadly and looks up at the clouds. "I quit." She looks down at me, grinning a little. "Good luck Andrew. Don't change."

And she jumps. I run forwards in the desperate hope that I can catch her but to no avail. She screamed the whole way down.

And somewhere behind me I can hear clapping.

"Ah, what a show. I didn't think she had it in her but when she jumped, well she proved me wrong, didn't she?" She laughs cruelly. "And what about you? Being the man, the rescuer. Well, the would-be rescuer. You tried so hard, didn't you Andrew? You even _proposed_. What will your father think? But I'm sure he would've approved of the bride."

I'm not in the mood for this. How do I deal with any of this? "Get lost Quinn," I snap, turning around and marching past her. "I don't need to hear any more of your bullshit."

Her arm snaps out as I pass her, tightly gripping my bicep. "Listen up, you cunt. You're gonna shut up. And then you're gonna come with me. Got it?"

"Afraid not," I snarl, pulling away. "There are things I should attend to."

She pulls a gun out of a holster under her jacket, sticking the barrel on my nose. "Shut the fuck up. I don't care. Now, are you coming or would you like to follow in the footsteps of your would-be wife?"

I stare intently at her, taking it all in. The blue eyes behind the librarian glasses, her blonde hair pulled back into loose pigtails, the intolerable smirk she must have learnt from Dad. "He actually is alive, isn't he? That's why you're here. He's too lazy to come get me himself." I swallow and close my eyes. "And all this is his fault." Opening my eyes again, I watch her smile.

"Aren't you the little genius?" She motions to the door with her head. "Now are you coming willingly or am I going to get to do this the fun way?" She grips my shoulder tightly. I try not to wince as her fingernails dig into my skin. "Shall we?"

She escorts me through the building and outside, deliberately steering me past Emilia's body. I try not to look but, well, I wish I hadn't. At what point did my life go stark raving mad?


	15. Dinner with Dad

**Dinner with Dad**

Harley's car speeds through the streets, avoiding traffic and red lights surprisingly well. Occasionally I can sense her looking at me but I ignore her, staring out at the street speeding past the window. I don't know where we're going and I've lost track of where we are. What does it matter? If a life can just be extinguished, just like that, what's the point in worrying anymore? Why should I care what will happen to me? Why don't I just end it all?

I have absolutely no idea where we are when we pull up. I know we crossed the river, but which one? And in which direction? I'm not even sure if we're on Gotham Island or on the mainland. We're in an industrial area which doesn't really help much in narrowing down our location.

Harley gets out and walks round the car, waiting for me to get out. I hesitate. I have no idea what I'm doing here. "I'm not opening the fucking door for you. Get out." She takes off her glasses, scowling at me as she sticks them in her pocket, pulling her gun from the holster. It may be beneficial to my health if get out now.

She grabs my shoulder and sticks the barrel of the gun between my shoulder blades. "Now, shut up and do exactly what I say. Got it?" I nod and she starts to push, steering me towards the closest towering building. At her command I open the door and she pushes me through into the dark beyond. I blink rapidly, waiting for my eyes to adjust as she steers me adeptly through the boxes, crates and oil drums. We walk for a while; as my eyes adjust I can make out the faint lettering on the boxes that I think reads _Ace Chemicals_.

Somewhere, Dad is laughing.

We make it to another door. Harley pushes the gun further into my back and I take it as a sign to open the door. Instantly my eyes are assaulted by the bright lights of the room beyond. I throw my hands to my eyes, trying desperately to shield them from the attack. All I can see it bright spots as Harley pushes me forwards, into the strange room that I can't see, towards the absolute silence.

"Get your hands away from your eyes, you stupid fuck." Her voice is echoing in this room. I ignore her until I hear her cock the gun. Cautiously, I pull my arms away and blink, trying to see this new room.

Harley pushes me towards a long table, elaborately decorated with a pristine white tablecloth, immaculate plates, polished silver cutlery and crystal glasses. She pushes me into a chair at one end of the table; the only other chair is at the other end, the vast stretch of white separating the two. It's excessively fancy. This must be what it's like to have dinner at Wayne Manor or with the Queen of England or someone like that. "What's happening?" She doesn't answer me. I turn my head and watch her standing behind me, her gun resting on the back of my chair. She's behaving like a soldier. It's giving me the creeps.

From behind me I can hear a door creak open. I try to turn to look but Harley grabs my head, turning me to face the table. But I can hear the footsteps I heard this afternoon; Dad's footsteps. He strides towards me; you can tell how he's walking by the sound of his footsteps. When he reaches me, he grabs a handful of my hair, pulls a little and then ruffles it almost playfully. I would move but the barrel of the gun is brushing against my neck and I'm worried that Harley might just be looking for an excuse to blow my head off. So I bow my head.

"So _good_ to see you again," he mutters as he strides away, walking down to the other end of the table. He turns slightly and smiles at me. "_Son_." I leave my head bowed but I raise my eyes to look at him. He smirks, the red greasepaint on his scars distorting his face. He doesn't have his purple coat on; just his vest and shirt with his pants and shoes, his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow. His clothes look clean, maybe brand new. "And my, _my_. Haven't things _happened_?"

"Great. You're alive. Can I go now?"

He makes a show of looking insulted. "Of course no_t_. Not after all the _effort_ I went to put this _nice, little_ dinner together." He sits down heavily in his chair, leaning back and staring at me. "Harley," he says after a while. "You can go. Aft_er_..." He rolls his wrist around, staring at me while he does so.

The pressure on my neck disappears as she moves. I start to relax, but I tense up when she returns with a handful of ropes. She says nothing as she holds my right arm down, tying it to the arm of the chair. I avoid looking at her, staring at Dad. All he does is grin. Then she moves down, tying my right calf to the chair leg. "Is this really necessary?" I ask as she finishes, standing up and moving to my left side. As she starts to tie my left arm, she pulls harder on the rope than necessary, making me yelp in shock and pain.

Dad chuckles. "I think we _both_ know it is. Can't have you running away, now can we?"

Harley finishes the final knot on my left calf. I try to flex my arms and legs, trying to get a little leverage, but the knots hold tight. Harley slaps the back of my head as she leaves "This is ridiculous. Come on Dad, it's not like I've been able to leave a room without your permission before. Besides, I don't even know where we are. And," I add in frantic desperation, "what can I possibly do to you? You're the Goddamn _Joker_! I'm nothing and there's nothing I can do to stop you. We both know it. I'm no threat to you."

"That's no_t_ the poin_t_." Dad leans with his elbows on the table, propping his head up on his hands. "_You_, my dear boy, need an education." He sits back, swinging his arms back in a large, sweeping gesture. "And who else but your dear father could provide you with one?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Tha_t_ would be telling."

"That was the point."

He shakes his head. "You're so..." He sucks his teeth with a pop. "_Im_patient. It will all come with time."

"I _can't_ spend days here. There are things I have to do... Matters I have to attend to." Beneath the table, I flex my arms, trying to get the ropes loose. It doesn't seem to be working but I might be here a while and who knows?

Dad stands up and leans on the table, his hands planted shoulder width apart. I stop flexing; he looks like he means business. I watch silently as he shakes his head slowly. "Ah," he sighs. "A _terrible_ accident. Such a shame. And Harley tells me you even proposed to her." I scowl at him, before dropping my head to my chest. I can hear his footsteps and out of the corner of my eye I can see him approaching. "Hey," he mutters, grabbing my jaw, trying to force my face upwards. I resist with everything I have. "Com' on," he mutters. "Look, com' on, _look_ at _me_." He growls, jerking my face up.

I wish my hands were free. I wish I could have wiped my cheeks, hidden my tears and my pain from my father. He starts to laugh when he sees the tears staining my cheeks. "_Fuck off_!" I scream, completely losing it, spittle flying from my mouth and onto his face. "Let me _go_! I _don't care _anymore! You win!"

He reaches up very slowly and wipes my spit off his face, taking his greasepaint off in streaks. I instantly fall silent; he's not impressed. He pulls my chair out from under the table and stands in front of me, leaning on the arms of the chair, his face inches away from mine. "I wan_t_ you to listen. And you _will_ do wha_t_ I tell you." He stares at me, his eyes digging into mine, ripping my strength apart until he has complete control. Just by staring at me. "If you don'_t_," he says slowly, "I _will_ kill you." His tongue flicks to the scars on the corner of his mouth and I shudder.

"Harley!" He yells, standing up. I can hear a door open and heavy footsteps coming towards me. Out of the corner of my eye I can see two pairs of burly hands grabbing the chair, picking it and me up, turning me around and carrying me towards the door they came through. I let my head droop, my chin touching my chest as they carry me. Dad and Harley walk out in front, leading the way.

We're somewhere deep in the twisting maze of corridors and offices when Dad opens a random door. Standing back, he ushers the two thugs carrying me into the room. They drop the chair in the centre with a jarring thud before leaving again. Dad flicks on the light switch, walking slowly into the room, leaving Harley standing by the door. "Ready to behave?"

"Dad," I mutter, shaking my head. "Please, let me go. I just, I don't care anymore." I blink rapidly, trying to keep composed. "I don't care about you, or Batman, or Harley or anything that's going on anymore. I just... I want to go home."

"Pathetic." Dad spits the word at me and I flinch as if he's struck me. "Useless and a waste of time and space." He reaches forwards, grabbing me by the throat, forcing my face up. His fingers, encased in purple leather, move around my throat, finding my pulse. He raises an eyebrow as he counts. "Your heart is beating fast, son. Are you _scared_?"

I don't say anything. He scowls and starts to crush my windpipe. "Yes," I blurt out. "Yes, I'm scared."

He smiles, relaxing his grip on my throat by a fraction. "Of me?"

"Yes."

His fingers move up to my face, gripping my jaw, running a finger over my cheek. "Of wha_t_ I'll _do_?"

"Yes."

He lets go and slaps me. My head moves with the force behind it and my cheek is stinging. "You're a coward." He turns to leave.

"No."

He stops in his tracks, turning round to face me. "No?"

"I'm scared of you, but I'm not a coward." He raises an eyebrow and folds his arms. I swallow, trying to overcome the lump of fear that has wedged itself in my throat. "I came home to face you every night even though I was terrified of you. I tried to tell you about my life, like I wanted you in it. I still did what made me happy, even though it made you mad. I never went to the police, I never told anyone about you, I never told anyone what you did to me." I grip the arms of the chair tightly, trying not to tremble. "I'm stupid, but I'm not a coward."

He comes back to the chair, leaning over me, his face right in front of mine. "_Prove_ it," he breathes.

I shake my head. "I don't have to."

He laughs in my face. "You do. You _really_ do." He turns and walks away, flicking off the light switch when he reaches the door, leaving me sitting in the middle of a strange room, tied to a chair, in the dark.

"You're not going to untie me?" I yell.

From the light of the hallway I can see him holding the door handle. "Why _should_ I?" He asks, pulling the door closed with a bang. I can hear a lock click into place. "Sleep _tight_, son," he calls from beyond the door.

"_Fuck you, you bastard_!" I scream at the door, panting with the effort. "_You fucking cocksucker_!" I wanted a reaction, yelling, for him to come in and teach me a lesson. I wanted to prove that I could take it. I know I don't have to, but I want to prove my strength. I want him to see how strong I am. But the only response I get is laughter and retreating footsteps.


	16. Scouring My Brain

**Scouring My Brain**

I don't know how long I've been sitting here. My hands and feet started tingling a while ago; I think I'm losing blood flow, probably cause of the ropes. I'm exhausted; obviously I can't sleep. Not like this. It feels like it's been days, maybe even weeks, but my common sense says to me that it surely couldn't be more than a few hours. That doesn't stop my worry that he's leaving me here to die. I keep imagining that the room is slowly filling with gas, or the building's going to explode, or he's just going to leave me here to starve to death. I don't want to die like this.

My eyes have glazed over and I'm resting my head on my chest when the door opens. I have to squeeze my eyes shut against the ferocity of the light from the hallway. I can hear Dad's footsteps, and I think I can smell him as he gets closer; his distinctive odour of mothballs, gunpowder and smoke. Today he smells like gas too. It worries me.

Cold leather gloves hold my cheeks, raising my head. I squint at him and I can vaguely make out his face through the light. His lips are pursed in a look of intense concentration. "Dad," I begin but sudden pressure on my cheeks and a disapproving look silences me.

"Fath_er_, I think," he mutters as he studies my face.

I can't comprehend what he's saying. "You..." I begin and then stop, trying to regain my thoughts. "You want me to call you Father?"

"It's more... _respectful_, don't you think?" I can sort of see him bend down and pull a knife from somewhere and my brain tells me to worry but I'm too tired. I watch mutely as he cuts the ropes binding me to the chair. He slides the knife into a holder attached to his sock garter and stands back up. "Get _up_."

I oblige numbly without thinking. My legs tremble and buckle beneath me but I don't fall. I can't. I don't understand why I'm not on the ground until I see his arm holding me up. I'm so confused. He lets go of me and starts to walk away so I follow him, trying to keep up. I can't explain how I'm feeling or what I'm thinking. He was being kind, he untied me, he helped me to stand. Maybe we don't have to fight anymore. Maybe he doesn't want to kill me. Maybe he can... love me?

He ushers me into a room just down the corridor from the room where I was held. I go in and he follows, closing and locking the door behind him. He looks from me, to an empty chair and back to me again. I take the hint and head towards the chair. The room is set up like the interrogation room at the MCU; one small table and two chairs, one on either side of the table. I sit down gingerly, resting my arms on the table. A purple leather glove clamps down on my right shoulder. I cast my eyes towards it for a moment before looking straight ahead. "Father," I say, my voice hardly above a whisper. "What's going on?"

His face appears on my left side, making me jump. With his other hand, he places gentle pressure on my right cheek, turning my face towards him. "Your education." He raises his eyebrows, giving me a serious look. "We need to talk."

I swallow nervously. He taps my cheek and straightens up, walking around the table to the second seat. "W-what do you want to know?" I whisper, staring down at the old wooden table, examining the patterns in the wood. Somehow, one clear voice echoes in my head, reminding me of who Dad is, of what he's done. Warning me of something that I can't quite understand, a word I can't quite hear through the dull fog clouding my brain.

"Let's get right to it, shall we?" I nod numbly and he smiles. He looks triumphant already. I hide my head behind one of my hands and yawn. "Wha_t _did you tell the _Bat_ about me?"

My mind is blank, as though someone's wiped it clean. I brace myself on the table. "I don't remember," I mumble, avoiding his gaze. His fist crashes down on my hand, crushing it into the table. I cry out in pain, tears coming unbidden to my eyes.

"We'll try that _again_," he growls, all traces of his good nature gone. "What. Did you tell. The. Bat?"

My mind whirls crazily, unable to cope with this drastic change in personality. "I-I, nothing." I see him start to raise his fist again and I hold up my hands, begging for mercy. "He knew everything anyway. I _tried_ to tell him things, but he already knew it."

He lowers his hand and stands up, leaning across the table. "How?" He breathes in my face. I shudder.

"I guess from that night you went to Arkham," I say, trying desperately to keep the pain from my voice. "He found me after I ran; he cornered me, made me talk to him. I didn't want to, I tried to get away but he wouldn't let me. Father, he frightened me."

I tremble as he reaches out and cups my cheek. He nods, looking directly into my eyes. "I understand son." A tear escapes and he shushes me, pretending to care, pretending to comfort me. It only serves to scare me more. I don't understand what's going on anymore. I'm so lost. He taps my cheek once and sits back down, acting as though this display of affection was a common occurrence. "Tell me about he_r_." He rolls the 'r' as I sit there blankly.

"Who?" I whisper.

He stares back at me and I shrink back into the chair, casting my eyes back down. "You _know_ who."

My breath catches in my throat. "I can't. I can't do it Dad." I look up at him again, trying to read his expression.

"Father." He stares at me in all seriousness.

"Father," I agree. He stares at me expectantly. I shake my head. "I can't. I won't."

"You. _Will_," he growls, bracing his hands on the table. "What did you tell _her_?"

I raise a trembling hand to my face and rub my eyes, trying to soothe them. Everything hurts so much. "I don't know. A lot. She knew about you..." I pause, trying to figure out what he wants to hear. "But I never told her about what you were doing or anything like that. Honest, I was loyal to you. And..." My breath gets stuck behind a ball of emotion wedged in my throat. "And, she's dead now." I let out one shuddering breath, feeling the pinpricks of tears behind my eyelids. "She got raped and got pregnant and so she killed herself." I can't look at him anymore. I stare down at the table and allow the tears to come. "And I couldn't save her. I didn't try hard enough. I didn't know what to do. _I_ killed her."

"Yes, son." My head snaps up. I can't comprehend what he's saying. He leans towards me with a look that implies he's letting me in on a secret. "You _can't_ save _any_one." He raises his eyebrows, staring me in the eye. He raises his finger, pointing it at me and waving it as he speaks. "No matter wha_t _you do, how _hard_ you try, you can't. Save. _Anyone_."

I shake my head, trying to make sense of it all. "But... Batman -"

"Batman's nothing," he dismisses with a wave of his hand. "He _fails_. Constantly." He purses his lips, sucking his teeth. "Harvey Den_t_." He holds up his hand, showing me a tiny space between his thumb and index finger. "Batman came _this. Close_. Dent's face s_till_ got burnt off. _And_ he went _mad_, tried to kill the Commissioner's kid." He grins and laughs, rocking back in his chair. "Lucky Dent didn't know about _you_." He winks at me, grinning as if he's letting me in on his joke. "You'd be _dead_."

"I could have done something," I mutter as I stare at the table.

"What?" Dad barks. I jump a little, trying not to look startled. He scowls at me. "You _can't_ save _any_one," he repeats. "She did what she needed to do."

I look blankly at him. "What do you mean?" He says nothing. "You... you knew about what was happening, didn't you?" He relaxes back in his chair, watching me like I'm an animal in a zoo. "That's why Harley knew to be there." Everything slowly ticks over in my brain as I jump to the worst conclusion my brain can fathom. "You raped her, didn't you?"

"_Me_?" He asks as if the very thought was unimaginable." I did _nothing_ of the kind." He leans on the table, crossing his arms and staring at me. "I saw it happen," he pouts and shakes his head. "_Nasty_ neighbourhood."

My hands grip the side of the table. "How could you?" I whisper, unable to muster a louder voice.

In an instant he's on his feet, reaching across the table. He grabs me by the front of my shirt and pulls, dragging me out of my seat and onto the table. I can hear my heart beating in my ears as he leans down to stare me in the eye. "Listen well," Dad mutters, his face so close to mine that I can see every minute detail. "You will _not_ question my actions. You _will_ obey me. My _word_ is _law_ to you." He looks at me expectantly.

"Yes Father," I whisper.

He smiles. "Good boy." He lets go of my shirt and I start to try to move discreetly off the table but he places his hands on my shoulders and pushes, sending me off the edge and onto the ground. I wince as I hit the concrete floor. He looks at me with disgust. "_Up_."

I scramble to my feet, trying to avoid his gaze. I can see him start to head towards the door. "Father," I call out, reaching out for him with my hand. He turns and stares at me. I drop my hand, ashamed at how needy that must have looked. "How did you survive?"

"I knew you would shoot me."

"You did?" I whisper. "But -"

He gives me a look and I shut up. "There were no bullets in that gun."

"But... you, you were bleeding and the, and the gun went off. And..." I trail off. I don't understand.

"Special effects. The things I do for you." He turns and unlocks the door and gestures to me. I follow him meekly back to that room, uncomprehending. He opens the door and looks at me and I don't know why I just walked willingly back into that prison, but I did. He closed the door and I heard the lock click into place and the footsteps retreating down the hallway before I realised that I was trapped in here again.

I sit down at the door, curling myself up in the foetal position. I can't comprehend any of this; Dad's sudden extreme changes in personality, his knowledge of what was happening in my life, hell, even that he knew I would attack him. He prepared for it. But... I can't see why. I don't know why I'm here; I don't understand why he's doing these things to me.

As I start to drift into unconsciousness, the word I had been so desperately searching for comes floating to the forefront of my mind. _Brainwashing_. That would be why he left me tied up; so I wouldn't sleep and I'd be exhausted. It'd explain the good cop/bad cop routine he had going on. And his scare tactics. Everything. And it'd mean... Perhaps he doesn't, can never love me.

But I can't hold my thoughts for long. Everything is disappearing almost as soon as I think it. I can hear myself panting in the darkness. The ground is concrete, and it's cold against my face. And I'm so tired I could swear I could hear someone else breathing in here.


	17. Learning to Kill Yourself

**Learning to Kill Yourself**

I wake up when the door slams into me. Wincing, I scramble away on all fours, blinking rapidly as I will my eyes to adjust to the light streaming in from the hallway. Dad's standing at the door, looking around the room. When he sees me crouching just beyond the door, he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a banana and throwing it in my direction. I grab it and eat it greedily; I couldn't tell you how long it's been since I've had something to eat.

He watches me eat it and then flicks the switch, flooding the room in light, effectively blinding me. I can hear his footsteps and his breathing and I can smell him so I have a pretty good idea of where he is but I'm anxious, flinching at every noise until I can see again. When I open my eyes, I wish I hadn't.

Helena. Helena; Joe's occasional partner. Helena; the oldest drag queen at the bar. Helena; my surrogate mother. Helena; bruised, bloody, beaten to within an inch of her life, bound and gagged in the chair I was tied to not so long ago.

"Up," Dad says, staring at me with a critical eye. I scramble to my feet, trying to avoid looking at her. Her eyes are covered, which is better for me. I don't know if I could bear for her to see me here, like this. "Come," Dad says, holding out his hand. I shuffle towards him and he grabs my wrist, pulling me closer to him. I let him grip my shoulder without protest; there's really no point in fighting it anymore. He's going to win. He's already won.

"Dad," I whisper. He squeezes my shoulder painfully. Helena's head moves as she hears my voice. "Father," I correct myself. "Please, please just let her go."

I expect an immediate response, for him to slap or shake me while he tells me how I'll be better off when she's dead. But he's silent, drumming his fingers softly on my shoulder. As the drumming slows down and ultimately stops, I can sense him leaning down close to my ear. The suspense of what he's going to say, what he'll do... it's getting to me.

"You _know_ that's not a woman, righ_t_?"

I stare at Helena and I know she can't see anything but I still get the feeling that she's staring back at me. "That's not the point," I whisper. "It's never been the point." I expect something, anything from him, but nothing happens. "Father," I mutter, my voice slightly louder. "It's how I want to live my life. It's not hurting anyone. Can't you let it be?"

"It's no_t_ about what _you_ want." He presses the handle of a knife into my hand and closes my fingers around it. "You know what to do."

My hand trembles and my fingers snap open as though the handle is on fire. "I won't." The words leap out of my mouth. I stare at the knife on the floor. "I'm not doing it. Don't make me do it."

"Pick it up." He's speaking softly, slowly, calmly. He's got none of the swagger or pretences that his speech always has embedded into it. He's talking normally, like a normal human being.

"Father -"

"Now."

I give in. I don't have a choice. The handle of the blade feels like it's burning my hand and I struggle to hang onto it. I just want to fling it across the room but I know doing that would achieve nothing. "How long has she been in here?" I ask, my voice trembling slightly. I want to be strong but the sight of her here, in this condition, terrifies me.

"Doesn't matter." He pushes me gently, forcing me to take a step towards her. "It would be better if _you_ did it."

The hand holding the knife is visibly shaking, the blade moving in erratic twitches. I watch it move with a sense of disconnection. My hand doesn't belong to me anymore. It belongs to him. The blade moves forwards, inching closer and closer to her face, stopping short of touching her skin. "No," I whisper, staring at my hand in horror.

Dad moves silently behind me. He grips my left wrist with his left hand, my right with his right. My mind surrenders. I let him take control of my body.

He gently moves my right hand, the hand carrying the blade. I watch it dance closer to her skin until it seems like it should draw blood but it hasn't made contact yet, he hasn't done it yet. I can hear Helena whimper; she can only guess at what's going on.

My free hand is guided towards the blindfold. He makes my fingers wrap around the material, forcing me to pull it away from her eyes. She blinks up at me in horror and I want to look away but I can't control my movements anymore. Her eyes plead to me but I can't do anything. I want to save her but I know I can't. I can't do anything to help her. I wish she'd realise what I now know.

The knife floats closer to her, pulling my hand along with it. I can see her eyes bulge as it gets closer and closer until it makes contact. Dad pulls my hand back slightly, allowing me to see the small trickle of blood running slowly down her cheek. My breath catches in my throat as she catches my eye; as I see her pain, her fear. She doesn't understand why I'm doing this to her.

I don't understand why I'm doing this to her. I don't understand why Dad hasn't killed me yet; I'm useless. Pathetic. I can't help him.

"Com' on," he mumbles in my ear, guiding the blade back to her face, trailing the tip along her jaw. A line of blood appears, marking where we've been. Helena fidgets and jerks, trying to get away, but she's bound too tight. Her movements just force the knife deeper into her skin.

Dad pulls my hand back, steadying it in front of her throat. He nudges my hand and it jumps forwards of its own accord, pushing the blade in up to the hilt; burying the steel deep in Helena's throat. She lets loose a blood-curdling scream that escapes her gag, its ferocity setting my hair on end. He lets go of me, leaving me standing there alone, shaking with fear, with my hand curled into a fist around the knife buried in Helena's neck.

"Finish it."

I turn my head to look at him, to implore him for his help. "Father, I, I..." I glance back at Helena and then squeeze my eyes shut, fighting the pinpricks of tears behind my eyelids. I look back at him. "I can't do it, Father."

"You did _that_ by yourself."

"I didn't want to; I didn't _mean_ to do it." I start to hyperventilate, trying to keep the hysteria I can feel building up inside me from bubbling over. "Father," I beg. "_Help_ me." He smiles slowly and I begin to realise what I've just asked of him, what I've just said in front of Helena.

He approaches me without a word, placing one hand on my shoulder and gripping my right hand with his other hand. I feel my control slipping as I let him win. I've surrendered and it feels good. I watch calmly as Dad uses the knife to cut through her neck. I cannot feel the blood on the hand that should belong to me. I stand and tremble as the blood drains from her neck, her face turning progressively whiter until it slumps and finally stops staring at me. I feel nothing. I am blank.

Dad loosens my fingers, forcing me to drop the knife. He turns me around and leads me away. I follow him obediently down the hallways, unthinking and unfeeling. He unlocks another door and turns on the light inside. He no longer needs to usher me in; I know my place. He watches as I sit gingerly on the small bed he has provided for me.

"We will talk in the morning."

I nod meekly, staring down at the floor. He doesn't turn off the light as he closes the door and locks me in. I curl into the foetal position on top of the soft mattress and blankets. I've never felt so empty inside.

I cannot comprehend that I killed Helena. It was me. _Me_. I did it. I needed Dad to stand with me, to show me what to do, but I did it. I killed her, like I killed Emilia. I couldn't save them. I tried for Emilia even though it would never work. I didn't try for Helena. There was no point. Dad had shown me that I can't save anyone. And I can't save myself. It's too late. I've already killed who I used to be.


	18. O Father, My Father

**O Father, My Father**

It seems like I've just closed my eyes when the light is turned back on and Harley is standing at the doorway. I'm still exhausted; physically, emotionally and mentally drained. It feels like I haven't slept in weeks. And, truth be told, I'm not sure how long it's been since I first came here. Dad's made day and night meld into one and I don't know what the time is, let alone the date.

"Get up," she snaps when I don't move. "Mistah J doesn't have time for your bullshit."

Somewhere in the back of my mind, a little voice whispers that I should fight back, maybe just ignore her, try to sleep but reason squashes the voice out. There's no point in my fighting it. There's never been a point in fighting him. So I get up, standing on shaky legs.

She looks me over with a smirk. She spends a long time staring at my face. I stare at the ground instead of returning her gaze. I can't look at her; she's the symbol of everything that's gone wrong in my life. None of this would have happened if Dad hadn't used me as a hostage to get Batman to put him back in Arkham so he could get her to break him out and run away with him. Everything comes back to that one night. Emilia and Helena and all those queens would still be alive if she weren't here. I wouldn't have done all those terrible things I did to try to get Dad sent back there. Maybe I'd still be worth saving.

I start to shuffle towards the door at one of her looks. She doesn't have to say anything to get me to move. I've been here long enough to know what to do when Dad or Harley come for me. She hides her surprise at my obedience well, but not well enough. I know she expected resistance. Hell, even I expected it a little bit. But when push comes to shove I just can't muster the energy anymore. I just don't care; it's not like there's anything for me to live for anymore.

We march down the hallway. Well, she struts like she's on a catwalk and I shuffle along behind her, barely picking my feet up when I move. I find myself watching her as she walks. I've never noticed her walking like that before. She's oozing confidence, walking like she owns the place. Has she always walked like that and I've just not noticed cause I was too busy with my own thoughts? It occurs to me that I haven't really seen her walk before anyway; she was always behind me, pushing me along at gun or knifepoint. Why should I have noticed her strut then?

Down the hallways, in and out of corridors, I get the feeling that she's leading me in circles on purpose, trying to get me lost in here. It's working. I have no idea where we are in relation to the room I was sleeping in.

Eventually she stops, opens a door seemingly at random, and waits for me to enter. I walk inside without a fight. I have a fair idea of what waits beyond and I am right in more ways than I would care to name.

Like the first day I was here, there is a large table with a long, white tablecloth and immaculate silver cutlery, this time set for three. Dad is already sitting, waiting at one end of the long table. Harley closes the door behind us and struts over to the chair on the other end of the table, directly opposite Dad. I pretend not to see her make eyes at him; it's something I could really do without seeing.

"Take a _seat_, son," Dad says, sweeping his arm out to gesture at the only spare chair at the table, directly in between him and Harley. "We're all..._civilised_ here." I stop to think for the briefest of moments before moving directly towards the chair; thinking is unwise.

Harley giggles as I sit down and hang my head. "You were right, Puddin," she laughs. "He is better..."

I look up at Dad out of the corner of my eye. His glare explains exactly why Harley has fallen silent. She's not stupid. Delusional. But not stupid.

"Andrew," Dad begins, a little formally but there's no point trying to explain why he says things the way he says things. He just says them however the mood strikes him. "Are you hungry, son?"

I begin to shake my head but my stomach growls loudly at the thought of the barefaced lie. I'm starving. It's been days. "Yes, Father," I whisper as I stare down at the white tablecloth. A terrifying thought pops into my head the second the words have left my mouth. I try to will myself to believe that it's simply not true, that it wouldn't happen but the truth is, it could and it would. I simply wouldn't put it past Dad to serve Helena to me to eat. Immediately I resolve myself to refuse anything that looks remotely like meat if it is presented to me. The idea that I can still fight back, no matter in how small a capacity, makes me lift my head a little higher. Maybe I'm broken, but I'm still me.

Dad gestures to someone behind me and a plate is put in front of me, half a dozen slices of bread stacked on it. I breathe an invisible sigh of relief when there is no meat product to be seen. So, with trembling fingers, I pick up the top slice of bread and begin to tear small pieces off it, putting them carefully into my mouth and chewing slowly. My stomach demands more but I force myself to continue chewing slowly; I've got to keep control of myself. I've got to get control of myself back again.

"We've had our _differences_ over the years, but," I look up to see Dad staring expectantly at me. "I think we can put that behind us," he continues once he's sure he has my attention.

The bread in my mouth is suddenly hard to chew and getting impossible to swallow. I gulp, forcing it down as I mull over what he's just said. He's still staring at me, like he's waiting for a response, and I feel like I should say something, say anything to break the unbearable silence. "I think it would be healthy to move on," I manage to mumble. He seems pleased at my response.

"Do you realise that this is all Batman's fault?" I shake my head slowly, my eyes wide as I stare at Dad, waiting nervously for whatever's coming next. He folds his arms on the table, leaning towards me. "Well, it is," he states plainly. "Do you ever wonder exactly _why_ I am the way I am?" He asks, looking at me as though he genuinely expects a response.

A tremor goes through my spine. "I guess I thought it was the scars." Dad raises an eyebrow. I stop to take several deep breathes and he waves his hand, indicating that I should continue. I don't think about my options or what would be the smart thing to do; I tell him the truth. I tell him exactly what I remember. And somehow I know it's what he wants me to say. He wants to get inside my mind. I don't know why but he does. And who am I to refuse?

"I remember you coming home one night and you were bleeding. Mom..." I pause, glancing quickly at Harley before returning my gaze back to Dad. "My mother was dead. I don't remember how old I was or when she died but she was dead when you came home covered in blood. You didn't tell me what happened. I was supposed to be in bed," my voice cracks and I stop to take a shuddering breath. "I got up when I heard you come home. There was... There was blood everywhere; a trail to the bathroom. I followed it and you were there with my mother's old sewing kit. I couldn't see what you were doing but I stood and watched you anyway. And when you were done, you turned and you were different. You pushed me away." The memories are flooding back now. I can see the dirty old bathroom, I can smell the blood. I can feel his hand on my face, pushing me aside, leaving a bloody handprint that covered me. "I guess I always thought that whatever happened that night did it," I finish lamely.

I don't know what kind of reaction I expected. I guess I always figured that anything could happen, especially considering what I was saying.

"You're wrong."

But I wasn't expecting that. For him to just tell me that memory was wrong, that the thought I had clung to for most of my life was wrong isn't a strange thing for him to do; I just never thought he'd say that.

"Batman did it."

"The scars?" I whisper.

"The Joker," he replies. "Batman _completes_ me." He gestures to his face. "_This_ was born to match him. He is _just_ like me, only _he_ can't admit it. And then he disappears. Leaves me alone jus_t_ when we were beginning to run this town. And I try to bring him back but the _Bat_ just won't _bite_. But I figured out how, didn't I?" He points an accusatory finger at me. "You," he breathes and I tremble. "You go to _him_ for help. But," and he laughs. He laughs loudly, wildly and at my expense. "If you had come to _me_," he says between bouts of laughter, "_none_ of this would have happened."

I shake my head, trying to form the words I need to stop his laughter but he cuts me off. "You're so _stubborn_. Trying to fight chaos and loyalty. You belong _to_ me. There is _nothing_ you can do to stop that. You _know_ that." He shakes his head. "I had to take you _here_, to where _I_ was created, just to show you what you _knew. _All. Along." I shake my head numbly and he smirks. "Do you _really_ care about your friend's suicide? You _murdered _that drag queen. You gave in... to _me_." He sits back, resting his arms on the arms of his chair.

"Of course I care." He looks mildly amused. "I do care. I tried to stop her. I didn't know what to do; I was frightened but I did my best. I didn't want to kill Helena. But I didn't want her to suffer. I didn't want you to hurt her."

He raises his hand, pointing at me. "But you _know_ you are _loyal_. To. Me. You do what I _want_ you to do. And I wanted her dead and you scared." He stands up. A noise from the other side of the room indicates that Harley has done the same. "Blood is _thicker_ than water, son." I sigh and lower my gaze, staring at the uneaten pile of bread. Suddenly I can't see how I could have ever been hungry. "You'll do what you wan_t_," he continues. "But the _smart_ choice is to join me. You know I'll protect you, _son_."

I look up in time to see him walk away from the table and towards a door on the far side of the room. Harley bounces along behind him, following him out. I sit for a long time in silence before I realise they're not coming back. I sit for a while longer before I realise that I can leave here and no one will stop me. But that's not the point. I can't leave here until I've made a decision.

And, despite what a third party may think, this is not an easy decision to make. What, I think, most people would fail to realise is that, despite everything he's done, this man, the Joker, is my father and, no matter what I think of him, no matter what he's done to me and the people I care about, I can't just abandon the love I still hold for him. He's tried to kill me and I still love him as my father. It sounds crazy but that's the situation. I hate myself for being able to realise this. And I hate him for making me capable of realising it. And all it took was the death of my best friend and the murder of my mentor.


	19. The Ties That Bind

**The Ties That Bind**

Once in a while you come across a major turning point in your life. Most people don't recognise these turning points as they appear; a few recognise them long after the turning point has passed and the life changing decision has been made. This turning point, the one I'm entering now, I know it'll change my life. I realise the decision I've just made, if I hold strong and carry through with it, will change everything in a way that'll make it impossible to go back. But I'm prepared to deal with it. I'm going into this turning point fully aware of its existence. I'm ready for it; and whatever consequences it'll bring.

When I was ready, I stood up and left the table; heading for the door that Dad and Harley left through. The darkness beyond reassured me that I was on the right path. I'm sure it was the same darkness that greeted me the day I arrived at this place.

Traversing the dark room is a slow, painful process. Crates and oil drums seem to appear out of nowhere, alerting my shins that I can't continue forwards and no matter how long I wander in here, my eyes never seem to fully adjust to the darkness enveloping me. Eventually I make it to a door. I close my eyes, sigh and pull it open, desperately hoping that I'm not back where I started.

Bright, natural light assaults my eyes and I can't help but run, stumbling out of the darkness and falling to the ground in the sunlight. The warmth on my skin is incredible; it fills me with a kind of calmness and makes me feel so much better about my decision.

The first order of business, I realise as I slowly get to my feet, is to make my way back home. I know there might have been something in that old factory that could help me out right about now, but I can't bear to go back into the darkness. And anyway, I realise as I turn to take in my surroundings, I can see the Narrows Island from here, across the river. It means that I'm not that far from a bridge; I can probably get home pretty quickly from here.

So I walk. There's nothing else to do; it's not like I can call someone to come pick me up. Besides, if I can find my way back to the river, I can't get lost. I know the city. I mean, yeah it takes a while to find a bridge but, now that I'm on it and heading back to the city, I'm fine.

I'm fine.

I don't wonder why I keep muttering that to myself. A little bit of reassurance goes a long way, especially considering what's been happening to me. Besides, it's kinda nice to hear my voice without an undertone of fear or misery.

I'm fine. I really am.

Once I've found a bridge leading back to Gotham Island, the words start to ring true. It's getting better now, it really is. I'm... well, I don't think I can call it home but I think it's as close as I'm ever gonna get. I'm on my own turf now. This is my city.

It doesn't take long before I'm in the Narrows again and I'm actually starting to feel relaxed. The nerves I've been fighting start to settle down as I climb the stairs to the apartment. He won't be here; it's too obvious. If I wanna find him, I'm gonna have to look for him. He made it perfectly obvious that whatever I choose to do, I'm gonna have to do it myself. Not that I ever thought he'd help me out in any way. It's up to me now. It always has been. I just never realised it.

The door opens slowly and, despite the fact that I know he won't be there, I'm almost expecting to see Dad waiting for me. Waiting for me to come home to him. The empty room stares back at me, just as I knew it would. I shouldn't be surprised.

I go to my bedroom and grab an old duffel bag from my wardrobe before heading back to the living room. The front door's still open. I race to close it before kneeling on the wooden floorboards. No one should see what I'm about to do.

I pull the dirty old rug off the floor, dumping it on the sofa. Running my hands over the floorboards, I search for the right one. I move slowly; time is no longer a factor in this. After a while, my fingers linger over a small hole in the floor. I dig my finger into it and curl it around, getting a firm grip on the wooden board before I pull, lifting up the floorboard and exposing a large hole in the floor. I move swiftly after that, pulling up half a dozen more floorboards before I've completely exposed the now sizable hole and its contents.

Reaching down, my fingers close around a pile of paper before I pull it back to the light. I examine the wad of money carefully. There's one hundred thousand dollars sitting in my hand. This is more money than most people in the Narrows will ever see in a lifetime. I pull the bag closer and drop the money into it before reaching down and grabbing another lot. As far as I know, Dad doesn't know I hid some of his stolen money down here. It's not a lot, compared to what he brought home; probably only a couple of million dollars. But it's more than enough. I've been planning for this day. You don't watch your father rip off all the Mob bosses in the city without realising that you've got to put aside some money for a rainy day.

I've never let myself say it in as many words, but I've been preparing for this day for a long time. Research, planning, ferreting away supplies in preparation for this; for when it would no longer be safe to live with Dad. It was the smart thing to do; I needed to have a plan.

I empty the space under the floor, almost completely filling the bag with the money. I take it back to my room and stuff some clothes in. I'll come back for more as I need it. As I close the bag, my eyes glance over to the loose floorboard near my bed. I drop the bag and go over to it, pulling it up to reveal my costumes. All the things I used to use when I was performing at The Mean Mother. I stare at it for a long time before I replace the floorboard. I won't need it where I'm going.

It's just starting to get dark when I walk back out onto the street, heading towards Arkham. I get to the building that started it all. Adjacent to Arkham's main gate, the decrepit apartment block looms down over me. It's where it all started; where Dad took me when he wanted to get caught, where I contacted Batman. And it has an abandoned apartment. I've done my research. I know the old woman who runs this place. I knew her when she was still a crack whore and now I know what kind of operations she runs here. I know where I can find her. All I had to do was hand her half a dozen wads of cash and the abandoned apartment was mine.

No questions asked.

She gave me a look as she handed me the keys. Perhaps she wanted to say something; she knew me as a kid, after all. She knows what I'm running from. But whatever she was thinking of doing, whatever she was thinking of saying, she ignores it and lets me walk away.

I'm about to walk back out the door when I stop and turn back to look at her. "What day is it?" I ask.

"Saturday," she answers, giving me a strange look. "Are you alright, son? Something I can do for you?"

I smile. "No. Thank you." She nods and I leave, hitching my bag further up on my shoulder.

I pause briefly as I stand on the street corner, contemplating what I should do next. I could go and see Emilia's family. It would probably be the right thing to do. But I am in no state for that kind of reunion. They would cry, expecting me to do likewise, to show my pain. But I can't do that. Not anymore. Perhaps other people would see it differently, but I killed Emilia. My actions made her jump. And I cannot face her parents with that knowledge.

So I walk to The Mean Mother. I would have called it my home if I were still living with Dad. But I'm not. I don't need the refuge anymore. And, after what I did to Helena... How can I face them? The show was meant to be today. The last drag act in Gotham. It was supposed to save us from him. I can't do that. I can only save them from me.

The stage door beckons to me as I stand in the alley behind the bar. It's just a glorified back door but, somehow, it symbolises so much more to me. I take a deep breath to calm myself and push it open, stepping quietly into the darkness beyond.

Around the corner, a light shines in the darkness. I head towards it almost instinctually. It's coming from the dressing room but there is none of the loud chatter that usually comes from here. The laughter and the talking I can faintly hear is coming from a different place, probably from the bar.

Joe emerges from the dressing room as I approach it. He stares at me, disbelief written all over his face, before he lets loose a strangled cry and rushes forwards, pulling me into a tight embrace. I reluctantly hug him back. I feel like a traitor.

"Andy," he mumbles as he releases me. "I didn't know if you were coming. I didn't know if I should cancel it or not." He smiles. He looks old and tired. "But I knew you'd come. You want this too much, hey?"

"Cancel the show." I sound hoarse, like I've been yelling all day. Joe looks taken aback. "I can't do it anymore."

He shakes his head and leads me into the light of the dressing room. He sits me down in one of the chairs in front of the wall of mirrors. I stare blankly back at myself as he puts his hands on my shoulders. "What's going on, Andy? It's not like you, going missing for almost a week, cancelling the show you fought _me_ to get... What's going on?"

I hang my head in shame. "Joe. Helena's dead."

"I know."

"No," I shake my head. He's sure Helena's dead but he doesn't know. "I know Helena's dead, Joe. I... I saw it happen."

We don't say anything for a long time. Eventually, I muster the courage to look up at the mirror, to look at him reflected there. "You're serious..." He mutters. My head moves slightly in confirmation. "Andy, what's going on? How do you know this?"

I knew he'd ask this. How could he not? But I still wish he hadn't. I don't want to tell him the truth. I can't tell him the truth. "It was the Joker. He kidnapped me. I saw Helena die. He did it all."

Joe laughs softly and shakes his head. He can't believe it; I can tell. "He kidnapped you. _You?_"

"I told you I was special."

He grips my shoulders tightly, but not painfully. "Are you alright? Did he hurt you?"

I didn't expect this. I thought, hell, I don't know what I thought would happen. But I'd assumed he'd want to know about what happened to Helena. They were partners. Didn't he care? "Yeah... I'm ok, I guess. He didn't really do anything," I pause, trying to think of the right word. "Physical, to me. He just... fucked around with my mind, y'know?"

"And he's the reason you're quitting."

There's nothing accusatory in his voice. It's just a statement; just him verbalising something we both know to be true. But I have to explain. I have to justify it to him. I have to make him understand. "I can't do it anymore. Not after what happened to Helena and the others. I don't deserve to be here. I'm a traitor; I killed them."

He turns me around at that, leaning down to look me in the eye. "Don't you dare say that. None of this is your fault. Nothing you could have done would have changed what happened."

I stare back at him. "But I killed them," I repeat. It's the truth, he just doesn't believe me.

"Stop saying it," he barks, shaking me. "It's not true. I don't care if it's all just self pity, if you're just saying it cause you're trying to deal with this but lying to yourself is not gonna help you, Andrew." He stops shaking me and falls silent for a minute. Then he sighs. "Andrew, I'm not disappointed that you're quitting. You're doing the right thing. It's not a good life. Not here." He lets go of my shoulders and takes a seat next to me. "I'm pleased you're smart enough to realise when enough is enough."

I nod solemnly and we sit in silence for a long time. I could leave now but there's something I need to ask. I need to be sure it'll be ok. "Joe?" He nods to say he's heard me. "Can I have a job?"

He grins. "Course you can. Behind the bar what you had in mind?" I nod and he pats me on the back. "We'll give you a break for a while, let you recover. You come see me when you're ready."

"Sounds good."

He laughs as he stands up. "Of course it does. Now, you should probably go home and get a good night's sleep. Looks like you need one."

I get up and follow him to the dressing room door. "Sure. What are you gonna say to them?" I ask, motioning towards the stage.

"Dunno," he shrugs. "Don't think it really matters. They're all probably too drunk to remember whatever I'll say anyway." He puts his hands on my shoulders and looks me in the eye. "Now, go home and rest. Got it? Don't come back here til you're ready for this." I nod and he smiles, letting go of me. "Take care," he says before he turns and starts to walk away.

I walk back the way I came, holding on tightly to my bag. That's the last of it. The last thing I had to rid myself of before I could start again. Maybe giving it up means that Dad won; I'm not sure. But starting again, starting down a new path, that's a victory for me. He won that battle. I won the war.

I start to head back to Dad's apartment. I'll spend the night there and I'll move my stuff out tomorrow. I'll try to contact Batman tomorrow night. I should tell him what's happening. Y'know, just to make sure he doesn't think I'm in contact with Dad anymore.

The night air is crisp as I approach the bridge to the Narrows. I'm deep in thought, thinking about what I'll do with myself now that I'm by myself. The thought almost distracts me from a shadow falling across the street. Almost. I look up and I can see him, standing there, watching me from the rooftops.

Batman.

It would be easy to ignore him. I could just walk home and worry about finding him tomorrow. But I walk towards the closest set of fire escape stairs instead. Why put off to tomorrow what you can do today?


	20. Any Last Words?

**Any Last Words?**

By the time I've managed to get up to the roof, Batman is already standing there, waiting for me. I don't wonder why he's glaring at me; I'm the son of his most dangerous enemy. I don't think anything I say or do is going to remove that mistrust. Besides, I don't deserve his trust; I'm just as unpredictable as my father.

"I'm sorry." Surprise flashes in his eyes for the briefest of moments. It was hard to catch, but it was there. "I stuffed up," I explain. "I'm going to make it right."

He nods once. "Then where is he?"

My heart sinks. "I don't know. Honestly, I don't. If I knew, I would tell you." I'm babbling. It's not like he was even accusing me of anything. "I don't know if it'll be of any use but he abducted me and he took me to this place that looked like an old abandoned factory. It was across the river, on the mainland. Opposite the Narrows. Some of the crates and stuff in there, they were all labelled _Ace Chemicals_. I, I don't know if it's any use to you." I shrug. "But yeah."

"What did he do to you?"

"What do you mean? I didn't say he did anything." He just stares at me. "Alright," I give in. "I did say he abducted me, but that doesn't mean he _did _anything to me."

He stares at me until I feel compelled to hang my head in shame. "You can tell me," he growls, "or you can explain it to the police. The choice is yours."

I let out a snort of laughter. "Some choice," I mutter but I am grateful. He's going easy on me by letting me just tell him what happened. It could've been different. Much different. He coulda dragged me anywhere in the city and I would've been powerless to resist him. He could've taken me to the Commissioner himself and left me there, forcing me to figure out a way to get myself out of it. Shit, the possibilities are endless. I'm just grateful he's not being an asshole.

"He, well, he's not angry, as such," I begin before I pause again, trying to think of the right word. "Disgruntled, I guess would be a better way to put it. He's annoyed I asked you for help. I guess he saw it as a simple choice. According to him, all I had to do to stop him, to stop the attacks, was to let him win. To let him... own me." My hands fly up and I look like I'm surrendering. "I know it sounds stupid but that's what I think he was saying."

"You fought him?"

"Yeah, all my life." I drop my hands and shake my head. "Not physically. He's bigger than me. Stronger too. I'd be dead if I tried. But my drag act, well, the one I used to do; it was a kind of resistance." This is the first time I've ever said something like this aloud. And it's all starting to click. I'm starting to understand why things happened. "And I always thought he just didn't like that I was doing a drag act. I guess I assumed that he was just homophobic. But it was never about that. He didn't have complete control of me. That's what he wanted." I don't even know if any of this is relevant to Batman anymore; I've just gotta figure this out. "That's why he's got Quinzel. He can control her and she'll do anything he wants." I stop talking and I feel like a freight train has hit me. That could've been me. I could have been Dad's pawn instead of Quinzel.

"You've changed."

Batman's curt voice cuts across my thoughts, interrupting them as I stare at him. "What did you say?"

"You've changed," he repeats. "Your resistance has changed." I feel a little taken aback. He can he tell? I can't see how he can be sure that I'm still resisting Dad and not him. "You're still resisting him; otherwise you wouldn't be talking to me." The Bat must be a fucking mind reader.

"I'm sorry," I mutter.

"You've said that before," he growls. "Why?"

I swallow past the lump of fear in my throat. "You need to know that I'm sorry. And I really am. But he... he made me murder my mentor, the person I considered my surrogate mother. He must have known how much she meant and he made me kill her to save her from him. And..." My breath catches in my throat as I think of Emilia. "My best friend. She was raped. And I can't prove it but I know he did it. She never saw him without the makeup so she wouldn't have been able to tell. Not if it was dark. I know he did it. He got her pregnant. Her fear in God, her fear of her parents, his unborn child made her jump. She killed herself because of him." I stop for a minute, trying to compose myself. "He has to pay," I finally manage to mutter.

"He will," Batman reassures but all I can hear is an empty promise.

I shake my head. "You won't make him pay. You won't do all that is necessary. How can you? You're on the run yourself. And Gordon and his police? They're a joke. What do they do when they catch him? Just lock him up for treatment that doesn't work. And then he's out again. It's like the Asylum has a revolving door. No. The monster needs to die."

"You can't kill your father."

"I've done it before."

"And that almost tore you apart." He's not glaring at me, but he's stern. He wants me to listen to this, I can tell. "You can't kill him without becoming like him."

I shrug. "They say that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree."

He shakes his head once, slowly. "You may be your father's son, but you don't have to be the Joker. You are already better than he is. Deep down you can't be as twisted and ugly as he is because you still care. He's alone. Leave him."

I take a deep, shuddering breath, fighting back my pain. "I'll do it because I care. For whatever reason, you won't kill to stop him. Arkham can't cure him; he's incurable. They won't send him to Blackgate cause he actually is crazy. The only thing that's gonna stop him is a bullet. And if you won't do it, I will."

I start to walk away, but Batman's voice stops me. "Did you think you'd killed him when you shot him?"

"Yes," I reply honestly, not turning to look at him. "Yes I did."

"I saw the pain and horror in your face. I know you cried for him, for what you'd done. You're not like him. You don't want to kill." I turn around to look at him and he's staring straight back at me. "Killing him is not the solution to your problems."

"Then what the hell am I supposed to do?" I snap and yell at him. "Don't kill him, you're better than that, you keep saying. I'm not. How can I be? He's all I've ever known. I am a fucked up kid. I used to watch him making bombs on the kitchen table. I grew up with the feeling that he probably killed my mother. _How_ can I _possibly_ be any better than he is when _I_ start to notice the similarities?" He doesn't say anything so I continue. "I am his son. You can tell, can't you? We act the same sometimes, when I can't catch myself in time. I'm a ticking time bomb. Who knows what's going to set me off, and when? And it fucking terrifies me. I don't want to be him. But I am."

"And killing him will solve the problem?"

The tone of his voice stops me from yelling. I stop and consider his question. "I don't know," I finally admit. "I just don't want him to hurt me anymore. And, if I remove him from the picture, then I can't join him when I fail. You can understand that, can't you?"

"Go back to school. Finish your education. Become a better man than he is. But don't become him."

I numbly shake my head again. "I can't. He wouldn't let me. He needs to be stopped."

"_I_ will stop him."

"Now that Dent's dead, and you killed him, you can't. You can't stop the Joker. Not anymore."

We stand for a while without saying anything. I look up, meeting his gaze. "I'm sorry. I'm going to break the law. I'm going to torture him. He'll wish he was dead. But I won't kill him. I won't give him the satisfaction. I won't let him win." He nods solemnly and lets me think for the right word without interrupting. "I don't want to fight you, but I can't let you interfere with what I have to do. Please," I implore, "don't assume that I've turned into him. I only want what's best for the city, for the few friends I have that managed to stay alive."

He nods once and I don't feel it necessary to say anything else. He lets me walk away.


	21. Breaking All The Rules

**Breaking All The Rules**

Months have passed and still Dad hasn't found me. Perhaps he hasn't been looking but that's none of my concern at the moment. I'm painfully aware that I'm living on borrowed time. Of course he knew that I was never going to take up the role he'd assigned me. He's not stupid and, despite what I may have tried to lead myself to believe, he does know me. I think he just enjoyed fucking around with me.

My life has almost fallen into a routine. I sleep most of the day and spend my nights working with Joe in The Mean Mother. It's got easier. Well, not really. Joe's made a kind of shrine, thing, behind the bar, dedicated to 'those who have fallen,' as he puts it. And, of course, there's a giant photo of Helena in there. He doesn't know the truth about what happened. He can never know. I can't tell him; he's all I've got left. So I struggle through each night, trying to avoid looking at the photo. Trying to forget what I did to her. It's hard. I'm going to have to quit before long, before I say something I shouldn't.

Laughter, followed by hushed talking floats across the almost empty room. I glare at the offending party before I shake my head and sigh. The Gotham City Library is no place for teenagers to hang out. I watch them with a kind of bored disinterest. One of them, a kid with red hair, is talking animatedly to his friend. His hands are flying as he talks and he is just loud enough for me to pick up snippets of what he is saying. And I don't like it.

I scowl as I look down at the newspaper. The Scarecrow's been recaptured, apparently. Anyone can see Batman's hand all over the capture but, of course, we have to congratulate the heroic police force who are taking credit. After all, they never saw Batman, so he obviously wasn't there. It's stupid but, well, what the hell can you do?

Although... Batman hasn't been showing up much at all lately. I just sort of figured I'd see him hanging around, capturing more thugs and weirdos. But nothing. This is the first thing I've seen in months, since I last saw him with my own eyes.

"You're fucking nuts, Lonnie!"

That was the friend. I look up in time to watch him walk away, leaving the redhead, Lonnie, apparently, standing alone with a mix of disbelief and anger on his face. I look back down at my paper. "He was right," I mutter, just loud enough to be heard clearly.

"I don't recall it being any of your business," he snaps, turning to look at me.

I shrug without looking up from my paper. "I heard what you were saying." I turn the page. "Seems to me, if your plan goes off without a hitch, this will be my business. As well as everyone else's."

He walks up to my table, leaning on it as he stares at me. "Do I know you?"

"You might." I close my paper and fold it in half before I look at him.

"Gotham High," he mutters.

I raise an eyebrow. "It was a long time ago, kid."

He scowls at me. "I'm not a kid. And it was only a couple of months."

"Perhaps. A couple of months can be a long time."

"You planted that fake bomb in the school's basement."

The silence after that statement is overwhelming. "The school never made that public."

It's his turn to shrug in an offhand manner. "They didn't need to. I saw it." He smirks at me. "Impressive work, for a fake."

I stand up, grabbing my newspaper as I head for the door. "It didn't need to be real." He's following close behind me so I stop and turn around, trying to stare him down. "If I had wanted it to work, it would have."

He grins and folds his arms across his chest. "So then why do you care about what I have to say?"

"Who said I cared? I just think you're an idiot." I turn to leave but he keeps following me, like he has some point to prove.

"So you don't think it'll work?"

"I don't care," I mutter tersely as we walk out the main doors and onto the street. "The fact of the matter is that you don't know what you're getting yourself into." He catches up to walk beside me. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. He's shorter than me, but not by much. He probably hasn't reached puberty yet. "You have all these grand plans to change the world but you don't know how the world operates. You're what? Twelve? How can you possibly know anything about the world?"

I can sense him glaring at me so I don't bother looking at him. "_Not_ that it's any of your business," he growls, "but I'm fifteen."

"Oh," I scoff. "A big man then. My apologies."

If I've annoyed him again, he doesn't say anything about it. "And I've seen enough of the world to know when it's broken. I'm not an idiot."

We both fall silent as we walk. After a while I stop and turn to face him. He stops and stares back at me, shrugging his shoulders. "It's true. The world's broken. You can't deny it."

"But what you're talking about is anarchism." He nods, a smug, self-righteous expression on his face. It's everything I can do to keep myself from slapping him. "You're an idiot. That can't save Gotham, it would only destroy it. The people would turn and eat each other."

He pouts slightly and shakes his head, looking for all the world like a spoilt child. "You're wrong. You don't understand it. The authoritarian system that governs Gotham is set up to benefit a tiny minority of its citizens. What did Bruce Wayne do to deserve to be a billionaire while billions suffer through poverty and famine?"

I shake my head and start to walk, headed back towards the Narrows. I don't want him to follow me but he does anyway, talking all the while. "The system is rotten, its destruction is inevitable. It's closed our eyes to the truth of it all. They tell us they can fix it, that they will fix it but they won't because they don't care. They just want power; if they fix the problems we'll stop giving them that power."

We're standing in the middle of a bridge connecting the Narrows to the rest of the city. "It's all very well and good," I snap, rounding on him, "to say all that. But none of it matters, does it? Why bother realising the problems if you're too powerless and too stupid to fix it?"

"But I can."

I laugh.

He scowls. "I can fix this. People need to be taught to open their eyes. That's all it'll take."

I lean in close. "If that's all it'll take then why did you bother following me all this way? You gonna convert thirty million people to anarchism by following them around until they give in?"

"No."

I raise my eyebrow. "I'm waiting."

"You're Andrew Napier."

"Yeah," I shrug. "That's not all that impressive."

He has that intolerable smug look about him again. "You're not that different to me. We both wanna change the world and we're gonna do it by any means necessary."

"What _are_ you talking about?"

"You put that bomb in the school."

"First of all," I say, holding up one finger. "You can't prove that was me. The school never made that information public and the police never charged anyone. Secondly," I hold up a second finger. "_If_ I did what you're accusing me of doing, what makes you so sure I was doing it for the reasons you think I was doing it for? Hmmmm? _If_ I did it, and this is not a confession, why would I do it to support anarchy in Gotham? I am not an anarchist."

"You should be."

I roll my eyes. "Fuck off, ok kid?" I turn and walk towards the Narrows and I know he's still behind me.

"Look," he says as he catches up with me. "I'm not asking for any favours here. I can do this by myself; I don't need your help. But I think you'd be useful." I scoff and he starts talking faster. "I know you agree with me, with anarchy. You live here, don't you? How can you live here and not realise the corruption that rots the city?"

"Everyone knows the city's corrupt," I snap. "But it's better than it used to be. What's your ultimate plan gonna be, kid? Turn Batman into an anarchist and bring him back to kick the government out? Good luck with that."

"Batman's misguided, that's all. He doesn't fight the things that cause crime. He just needs to learn to see the wider picture."

I stop again, turning round to face him. "That's fucking ridiculous." He looks slightly taken aback but covers it up with a hateful glare. "You ever talk to Batman, kid?" He says nothing. "Well I have. And if you're gonna try to convince Batman to see things from your point of view; you're wasting your fucking time." I start to head off again but then I remember and I swing back around to face him again. "And another thing; what's the anarchist's stance on people like the Joker?"

The kid shrugs. "He's a response to the corruption of the world. He's part anarchist."

I shake my head. "Nah. You're wrong. He kills people and fucks around with their mind just because he can. He doesn't care about corruption or the ruling class or any shit like that. And he's not an anarchist. Probably doesn't even know what the fucking word means. He just wants to see you hurt."

"What makes you so sure of that?" He snaps back.

"Oh, believe me kid. If there's one thing I know, it's the Joker."

"And how would you know him so well?" He muses. "Are you a disgruntled goon? I know you're not a kidnap victim; the police tend to advertise their successes and rescuing anyone from the Joker is definitely a success." I've had enough. I start to walk away but he follows me, his voice getting louder. "But you certainly _resemble_ him. Your facial structure is quite similar and certain characteristics of yours are certainly similar to his." I start to walk faster but he raises his voice. "Your walk, for instance. Even when you're rushing you have the distinct undertones of his swagger. And your laugh? My God, don't get me started." I turn and move towards him, grabbing him by the throat and forcing against the brickwork of the nearest building. "Interesting," he mumbles. "I've never seen your _father_ work but I'm sure you picked this up from him."

"What. Do. You. Want?" I growl, resisting the urge to slam his head against the bricks.

He grins. "You already know what I want." I raise an eyebrow. "I want your assistance. Surely the Joker's _son_ would be able to offer _some _assistance to the genius anarchist who will save Gotham."

"You do think highly of yourself."

"When one is as intelligent as I am, you can't help it," he smirks.

I shake my head. "I'm not helping you. I have my own plans to see to."

"Fine. I'm sure the police would like to know where they can get their hands on the Joker's son."

Silence falls over the pair of us. He doesn't resist my hand round his throat as he smirks up at me. "Your plan is to blackmail me into helping you?" I say.

"Is it working?"

I let go of him and watch him stand there, rubbing his throat. I've left red marks on his skin. "Leave me alone."

"You already agree with me. I've just got a bit of leverage now. Help me or I will turn you in."

"Again, why the fuck do you want my help?"

"I'm not asking you to put on spandex and jump around the city with me."

"You're actually planning on doing that?" I mutter.

He ignores me. "I want information." He looks around the street we're standing in. "I don't come from this part of Gotham."

"Evidently."

"But you do. My family's not criminal, yours is." I fold my arms and raise an eyebrow. "And you've already told me you can make a working bomb if you wanted to. You have information I want and I have information you don't want me to let out. I fail to see why we can't work together."

I shrug. "All you're trying to do is blackmail me, kid. That's a sure-fire way to get yourself killed. Besides, even if you let it out and I don't kill you, it's not that hard for me to disappear." I shake my head. "No. I want something."

He looks at me warily. "What do you want?"

Somewhere behind us, a siren starts wailing. The kid looks slightly panicked. "Relax," I mutter, turning to face where the noise is coming from. "We're not doing anything."

"I'm not worried."

I scoff. "Sure." The siren moves away towards Gotham's CBD and I turn back to look at him. "You see that building there?" I point to the building on the corner. He shrugs. "It's on the corner in front of Arkham's main gates. You want me; you come to this building, go inside and knock on the first door on your right. Ask for Andrew. If I'm there, she'll tell you where to go."

He raises an eyebrow. "You trying not to be found?"

"Pretty much."

He shrugs. "Whatever." He sticks out his hand for me to shake. "Lonnie Machin."

I grip his hand. "I'll see you around then, Anarchy."


End file.
